


Of Ether, As a Bridge

by ObviouslySketchy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant - ish, Chapter 7 TW - Self Harm, Dark Inquisitor, F/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, POV Second Person, Sided with Templars, The Mark is Sentient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObviouslySketchy/pseuds/ObviouslySketchy
Summary: Yanked from your world and thrust out of the Breach, you are at the mercy of strangers.And so youhate.They say the Inquisitor is a protector of the people.





	1. Chapter 1

They said The Breach spit you up like a newborn calf.

 

They said your eyes bled fire and your hand was fire itself and your voice echoed with the wails of the damned.

 

They called you criminal and traitor and _heathen_ and spat at your feet as you walked, hands bound behind your back and strong hands clutching your arms with bruising force.

 

They cheered when you returned, hands stained with the blood of nightmares, eyes hollow and unseeing - they proclaimed you Herald and looked away when you stumbled over mud and couldn't get back up because _there were demons, and demons aren't real_ but the remains in your hair and on your clothes tell a different story.

 

How did you end up here? At night, your dreams are so vivid that for a moment, you believe you are living two lives at the same time - and none of them are pleasant.

 

You never knew what night terrors were - never had to deal with them, in a world where the most traumatic thing you ever experienced was the blurred sight of death delivered in monotone through a screen. Now your screams wake you up on a daily basis and when you try to seek help there is none to be found - _"The Herald must stand tall and strong for the people."_

 

You have a duty now to feed, clothe, provide for and _protect_ the people who insulted you, chained you and _dragged you, kicking and screaming,_ into rubble and expected you to fix everything as if _a tear in the sky_ is nothing more than a small cut you slap a band-aid on and forget about in half an hour. _(And who is going to fix your hand, the one that spits **green** and aches every second of the day?_ The apostate did whatever he could, any attempts to cure you of your ailment is met with failure.)

 

Why should you, _the traitor, the heathen, the sinner who dared rise against the Maker and his bride_ fix what they couldn't? Why should you feel anything else than _hate_ and _rage_ and _**how dare they stand around and act like cattle?  
**_

 

They wake up and do nothing more than shuffle through military tents and mourn for the loss of a temple, wide eyes staring at you wherever you go - _demanding_ you be the one to end their nightmare. _But who is going to end yours?_

 

"The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour." Their Maker has a twisted sense of humor.

 

"As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition of old, reborn. We will close The Breach, find those responsible and restore order."

 

"And if I refuse?" They won't let you get that far, you're certain - and their excuses and promises ring hollow, even to your ears.

 

But you stay.

 

More than that, you decide to _join_  these fanatics and as they equip you with armor and weapons and haul you off into the wilderness, the hate you harbor for Haven and its inhabitants pales in comparison to the one you hold towards the cause of your mark - be it a demon, Andraste or the Maker himself, you hunger for ** _revenge_** and if you have to subdue yourself and bend the knee for you to get it then _so be it._

 

Five days later in the dead of night, after you have been forced to climb mountains and soothe country-folk and _slaughter more people than you can count_ the breath in your lungs stutters once, twice, and the darkness of your tent is driven away by the yellow flame that licks at your fingertips.

 

You cry then laugh, a broken, hollow sound that echoes around you and pay no attention to the burned flesh of your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to control myself, I really did but I was bored and hungry and sleep deprived and listening to Melody Thornton's Lipstick&Guilt for the hundredth time today and so this came about.
> 
> YES GIVE ME ANGRY INQUISITOR, GIVE ME ONE THAT LOOKS AT CORYPHEUS AND _SMILES_ BECAUSE HE'S DOING EXACTLY WHAT SHE WISHES SHE COULD DO.
> 
> Dark state of mind breeds dark fiction.
> 
> Relationships? Who knows, haven't decided yet. I am basically going in blind and hoping for the best, at this point.
> 
> I am so not done with this.


	2. Chapter 2

You have an apostate, a rogue and a fanatic as companions on this - _generously_ titled - quest.

 

They speak of peace and safety yet their weapons cut through flesh like butter and bleed others dry with nothing more than a blink.

 

Compared to them you're like a newborn, struggling to stay upright on wobbling feet; you awkwardly wield the daggers that have been thrust into your hand by the blacksmith and despite the constant nausea and horror that accompanies every exchange of blows you power through it because _that's the only way to remain alive._

 

There's blood _everywhere_ and you sometimes drop your weapons and narrowly miss the swing of an axe aimed for your torso. You have been mercifully spared from delivering the final blow but such a small thing does not make the fact that you're an accomplice to murder any easier. When you're not in combat, your body is overcome with violent shivers; the whole of your existence buckling against the weight of stolen lives. You are a **murderer.**

 

The fanatic rages and complains and talks your ear off and you grit your teeth, furrow your brows and say nothing in exchange, eyes fixed on the remaining embers of the campfire.

 

The next day when you are caught in a bandit ambush - _again, always, when will it end I just want to go home_ \- companions at your back and the terrifying force of desperate, hungry men advancing on you, you step away from a sword aimed for your heart with not so much as a warning to the people behind you.

 

The sword collides with armor, a sharp screech of metal against metal that mirrors a child's cry. You look away at the sight of blood and swallow down the guilt and nausea that comes with it - not your problem (oh but it is your problem _now_ , isn't it, _**Herald?**_ )

 

That night you huddle close to the warmth of firewood and wait for the fanatic to begin her usual rant only to be met with nothing but silence, the apostate's whispers carried on the wind as he struggles to close her bleeding wound.

 

The nagging has stopped but the pit in your stomach grows larger and you fear it might swallow you whole.

 

* * *

 

Your dreams are different here.

 

They go beyond the ghostly apparitions and subliminal messages you would have normally forgotten by the time you wake up. At night, you wander plains, forests and cities with as much clarity as in your waking moments. Your sight is the sharpest of all and when you are woken by the usual hustle - _at the break of dawn, every single day_ \- the dreams persist, crisp and clear in your mind's eye.

 

That is how you know you're being watched.

 

The people and beings that walk among your dreams are but ghosts; some with half-formed features, others with none at all. You wade through them and smile and converse as if nothing's wrong when their eyes don't move the way they're supposed to or when their voice is too clear for someone that lacks a mouth - figments of your imagination, all of them. Back in your world, these oneiric beings might have looked the same but here, where one's dreams are not their own you are able to see the flaws of everything around you.

 

The being who lurks on the edges of your subconscious is in stark contrast to the saturation permeating your dreams. Ragged clothes so clear you could count every single thread that hangs loosely from the weaving and voice so small yet easily overpowering your own.

 

Its face is obscured by shadows, the only feature you can see - the only feature you are _allowed_ to see - are the malachite eyes staring back at you.

 

At first, it observes.

 

It hovers on the edge of your dreams, unmoving, and it's not until you leave Haven and your landscape shifts and you find yourself blessedly away from burning plains and armored men, that it speaks.

 

It takes one look at concrete walkways, passing cars and skyscrapers and steps forward, for once its eyes not trained on you but on the world around.

 

"What is this?" It speaks-screams-whispers all at once.

 

"Home."

 

Behind it the shadow of a wolf crouches low to the ground, canines exposed.

 

* * *

 

"Get up." You are - quite literally - shaken to consciousness by a forceful hand. Your groan of protest does nothing to deter it and when you brave a peek over your shoulder the grim face of the Seeker scratches against your irises.

 

Two weeks have passed since you left Haven. Two weeks of scorching sun, of climbing hills and trekking through mud and rain and of sleeping on rough wool blankets at night. Two weeks of bending so far to her will, you marvel at your flexibility.

 

You are still coping; still struggling to fully comprehend your situation and the consequences that come with it. One of these days, something will make you _snap_ and you dread the arrival of that day because it will be a testament to your weak will, to the fact that _Thedas_ is getting to you and you are far too proud and far too stubborn to admit that to any other person but yourself. The bubble of negativity that has slowly built inside your chest is now a stone, heavy and inconvenient and always one of the leading causes of your headaches.

 

When you exit your tent you blink against the glare of the sun, offer a halfhearted nod of greeting to your other companions and proceed to try your best not to choke on today's breakfast. No words are spoken about the bandages wrapped around your hand. Once the rest of your company has finished their morning meal, you don your armor and proceed to follow the fanatic's lead out of the Inquisition camp and further into the Hinterlands.

 

It's when you're almost to the crossroads and the chirping of birds is drowned out by distant voices that the dwarf pipes up, voice slow and lazy and so _innocent_ you're immediately overwhelmed by cold shivers despite the afternoon sun beating down the back on your neck.

 

"I have to say, Herald," He begins, and you can practically _feel_ the attention of your other two companions shifting, focusing on the dwarf and his words. "I did not expect a noble to agree to a field quest."

 

"You think I'm a noble?" You ask in return, momentarily confused.

 

"I saw you grimace at a _fly_ ; my bet is Orlesian." He snorts. You get the vague feeling you should feel insulted by his comment but you hardly know anything about Orlais expect for a vague placement on the world map.  One of these days you will have to start looking through the books stored in the Chantry; your lack of knowledge about this realm will soon come back to bite you in the arse.

 

It takes a while for you to respond, mind churning with possible answers and deflections. You're not stupid; just because they haven't sat you down and ripped your nails off demanding answers of your origin does not mean they'll keep silent and the dwarf's casual questions are just another form of interrogation - albeit a lot more pleasant.

 

Ultimately ineffective, but it's the thought that counts, right?

 

Everything you know about your companions is gathered from vague comments thrown about in conversations - Cassandra is Nevarran, Varric comes from Kirkwall, has a friend that might be the most wanted criminal in Thedas, and Solas is the only one who freely joined the inquisition. Not much detail about the latter, other than his fascination with magic and the Fade. The term hedge mage was thrown around at some point but the others did not deem it necessary to explain its meaning.

 

You turn towards the dwarf and decide to bite the proverbial bullet and pray your (rather lacking) knowledge of Thedas' geography is not something you made up in a fever dream.

 

"Of course you'd say that. You're _Fereldan._ " It's the right stress and tone of voice to make the word stand out but not exactly insulting - it's up to him how he'll receive the comment, and from the smirk he throws in response and the lack of input from your other companions, your answer was not the disaster you expected it to be.

 

You sigh, shake your head in response and try to focus on the sounds of wildlife around you rather than the fact that you're in a group of three people who have no qualms about ending a life. How the _hell_ have you survived this long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistake #1: This Inquisitor has most definitely /not/ memorized their geography.   
> Edit: spelling issues somewhat fixed


	3. Chapter 3

Your talk with Mother Giselle leaves your head reeling with more unanswered questions than before. She leads you to a wooden shack and has you sit down on a chair that looks like it could collapse at any moment while she stares out the window, afternoon sun illuminating her features and making her look every bit the angelic woman she is supposed to be. With a smile and a heavily accented voice, she discloses the secret to weakening the resolve of the most powerful religious organization in Thedas.

 

“Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them and you receive the time you need.”

 

When she leaves, you cannot even grasp the notion of standing up from your seat, let alone traveling to Val Royeaux to _break the unity of the Chantry._

 

You exhale, a whoosh of air that stirs up some of the dust particles floating around. When the Seeker sets foot inside the humble abode she finds you unmoved, staring blankly at the air in front of you.

 

“Herald?” Your mind is so scattered that you try for a smile in response – perhaps the first one you have attempted since waking up in this hell – but the look she gives in return speaks volumes about the quality of your expression.

 

She folds her arms and leans a shoulder on the door frame, face and posture too casual for someone who stood against the full swing of a sword. You glance at the side of her torso but the armor she wears betrays nothing of the wound underneath. “The people here do not take kindly to our presence; some of them continue to believe you are the cause of The Breach. I believe that aiding those in need might cause them to change their opinion.”

 

In other words, bribe the poor and the hungry into thinking you’re a good person. No easy feat but infinitely simpler than barking up the tall religious tree.

 

“What do you have in mind?” You ask, standing up and brushing away the dust and dried dirt on your clothes.

 

“Varric and I will help the huntsman. Solas decided his talents would be best suited for the wounded. _You_ will stay here.”

 

“I…what?” Does she think you’re completely useless? Granted, you barely have the upper body strength to lift a greatsword, let alone the aim necessary to hunt with a bow but there must be a modern age skill that applies to this painfully medieval world. Right?

 

 “Rest. Tomorrow you will close the rifts in the area.” The Seeker proclaims then nods to herself as if to acknowledge a job well done. You blink, surprised at the sudden benevolence but you quickly mirror her nod lest she changes her mind.

 

“Do not wander away. There are-“

 

“Templars and apostates. And bandits. And, apparently, _bears_.” Your lousy attempt at making light of the situation is met with stony silence. The Seeker simply turns on her heel and walks away.

 

A day off.

 

You nod to yourself and turn around to survey your surroundings. The roundhouse you have been shoved in – and which will most probably become your temporary residence for the time being – seems to have previously belonged to a healer, going by the empty bottles strewn about and bouquets of dried and wilted flowers. Wasn’t that what people used to do back in the day? Slap a leech on a man, feed him herbs and tell him to walk it off?  A large plank nailed to four wooden legs and covered with a thin piece of fabric serves as a bed and next to it there’s a chest in which the healer might have kept his valuables – which, judging by the hole ripped in the top of the lid, have been shamelessly stolen.

  
_Val Royeaux_. It sounds painfully French.

 

You shake your head and make your way to the desk in the opposite corner of the room, absentmindedly leafing through parchments filled with notes and sketches of plants.

 

Mother Giselle’s faith in these fanatics is unrelenting; she not only expects the Inquisition to save the fucking _world,_ she expects you to march into Val Royeaux marked arm high as if one of her fellow Chantry-men hasn’t put a bounty on your head and branded you a criminal. By the time this is over, you’ll be surprised if the Chantry doesn’t forward an edict to disband Cassandra's hastily formed group of heroes.

 

You grit your teeth. If you walk into Val Royeaux, into the home of their Chantry, you will undoubtedly be seen as the face of the Inquisition.

 

They will overlook Cassandra’s Spymaster and Ambassador and Knight Commander because they will be too busy staring at the heretic who not only ripped the sky open but had the nerve to stroll up to their front door as if nothing happened in the first place.

 

You’re not ready for this. _They will_ _skin you alive._

 

You find the healer's journal, wrinkled and opened underneath the desk and amidst its pages you shove the sketches and other medical notes that might prove useful in the long run.

 

Worrying about what's going to happen won't help anyone; time to go find the apostate.

 

* * *

 

The refugees don't take kindly to strangers - the war has taught them that - but what you don't expect is the unvoiced hostility permeating the air. Inquisition forces sit neatly on one side of the valley while the refugees huddle in groups on the other side. You exit the roundhouse and find the apostate away from both encampments, poking at the remains of a fire.

 

"They have no need for my help. Perhaps the Seeker will be more fortunate in her attempts." You suppose you should have expected it - Inquisition soldiers setting camp wherever they please, taking what they want and claiming they're protecting people; any sane person would think twice about putting their trust in such men.

 

"Closing the rifts might alleviate some of the hostility." He continues.

 

"Easier said than done."

 

"Has the mark been bothering you?" You lift a shoulder in response and choose to examine your hand rather than meet the apostate's eyes. The wretched thing has latched onto your hand and shows no intention of separating in the near future - and speaking about it as if it possesses the capability of human thought is not quite wrong. You have spent enough time as a _muggle_  to know that _hunger_ is not supposed to feel like this; to come from the palm of your hand, through the mark's exit point rather than your stomach.

 

 This foreign magical parasite is mucking about in your body and the longer you think about it the more you want to pick up your dagger and slice your hand clean off in the hopes it will go away.

 

But you don't trust them enough to share your pain. Threat or not, you will deal with the thing on your hand by yourself not have a stranger with convenient magical knowledge fix everything for you.

 

You raise your eyes to meet the apostate's own. "Not more than it used to." His brows furrow and for a moment you can see the flicker of confusion pass over his features before he schools his expression back into neutrality. Was he expecting something else?

 

"You said you have knowledge of spirits, yes?" You ask in an attempt to divert the topic away from the potential cause of your death and towards a relatively lighter topic. "Would you be willing to share some of that knowledge?"

 

The apostate blinks as if taken aback at your sudden shift in conversation but his posture remains open and welcoming. Your thoughts are confirmed when he gestures to a patch of grass next to the fire pit.

 

"What would you like to know?"

 

Now that your question has received a favorable answer, you don't quite know where to begin. The demons - demons are _real, they're real and they're **here**_ \- you have encountered at the Temple of Sacred Ashes were nothing more than crooked humanoid shapes along with the occasional ghostly apparition.

 

You sit down on the patch of grass presented to you, clasp your hands together and ask the apostate for a description of the demons that spawned out of The Breach. He does not question your curiosity nor your attentiveness - perhaps not many people know or have bothered to learn about the nature of the beings that live in the Fade; a fact that is confirmed by one of the apostate's passing remarks about how people tend to confuse spirits for demons. What follows next is a long explanation regarding the general differences between the two said entities which leaves your mind reeling. You are aware his lectures are but a single man's point of view and judging by the caution he has been awarded with since joining this merry suicide mission, his views on spirits and the Fade might not be that widely accepted after all. You wouldn't be surprised; people tend to dismiss what doesn't fall into the black or white category - why should this world be any different?

 

It's at this point in the conversation when you're too busy digesting your newly acquired knowledge that the topic shifts to your still unknown origins. You should have expected it - the dwarf tried to pry into your background, why shouldn't he?

 

"I admit, I did not expect you to harbor such curiosity towards the Fade and its inhabitants, nor to accept my teachings with such an open mind." He speaks, tone of voice unchanged. For all intents and purposes, the nonchalance that accompanies the question might serve to lessen its impact. You don't meet his eyes - at some point during his lecture you have unsheathed your daggers and begun methodically cleaning their surface simply because of a desire to keep your hands busy. The cloth slides along the smooth surface of the curved metal as you ponder your answer.

 

"Have you encountered resistance?"

 

"Of a sort. Most seem content with the Chantry's teachings; I figured you, most of all, would be among them."

 

There's dried blood gathered in the spot where the blade meets the handle. You frown.

 

"Because I'm a noble."

 

"Orlais is the center of religious power, is it not?" He asks, and it is at this time that realization dawns on you.

 

To them, you're still a stranger. A  _wildcard_. At any point, you are expected to flee in the middle of the night never to be seen again along with the thing on your hand that is, conveniently, the solution to the end of the world. You make the mistake of raising your eyes from the blades, meeting the apostate's own. While his face might seem pleasantly intrigued, his eyes burn through you.

 

You swallow. "Val Royeaux, yes, but the capital is not the place of my birth and neither the backdrop of my upbringing. I assure you whatever beliefs my fellow citizens choose to devote themselves to, I take no part in."

 

"A curious thing, especially when most people hold Andrastianism in such high esteem."

 

A wave of a hand in the direction of the refugees. "Yes, and look where it got us. In the middle of a war that would not have happened if not for her teachings. Tell me, Solas, what do _you_ believe in?" From the corner of your eyes, you see his form straightening.

 

"Cause and effect. I appreciate the idea of the Maker but ultimately, people are the cause of the greatest triumphs and tragedies of this world."

 

"You seem to deny the existence of higher powers in a world where magic is, quite literally, in the air." You meet his gaze once again, eyebrow raised. There's a shift in his position; a lowering of the head that might indicate a nod - it's too subtle for you to understand.

 

"Oh, I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter but I don't think any of them were truly gods unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity."

 

"A view we seem to share. Gods are made by people, and I have a hard time believing they are nothing more than men with too much power and an inflated sense of pride."

 

The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

 

"Heretical words, coming from the Herald of Andraste herself."

 

* * *

 

Night falls and you spend the remaining hours until sunrise inside the roundhouse, away from your companions and alone for the first time since leaving Haven.

 

You don't sleep.

 

Instead, you light a candle and flick through the healer's notes. Detailed charcoal sketches of different parts of plants cover the sheets of parchment, each with its own explanation - _"Elfroot leaves - general medicinal purposes. Cutting the leaves before boiling will result in a more concentrated tincture. Blood lotus - Long stem, closed flower petals - not to be confused with black lotus. Ingestion of the flower will cause severe hallucinations DO NOT MIX WITH DEATHROOT_ "

 

The appearance of said plants remain a mystery but you are pleased you've managed to gather even the tiniest amount of knowledge on the flora of this world. It's like back home where you knew the type of tea to drink for a sore throat or to relieve stress.

 

The sketches are soon replaced by entries of what seems to be a daily journal by which point your curiosity for the night is sated enough to put the book down and try to rest for the day ahead.

 

But you can't.

 

This is the first time you have managed to be alone, undisturbed, for an extended amount of time. Your bandaged hand twitches as if mocking you.

 

You sit down on the sorry excuse for a bed, eyes closed and body arranged in a typical meditation pose. Closing your eyes, you focus on your breath; on the inhale and exhale routine that subdues the chaos of thoughts that hound you during the day.

 

The magic in the mark on your hand is a living thing. It possesses a certain sentience which you can almost feel brushing up against your conscious mind at random times during the day. It is unsettling, to say the least and you have to actively make an effort not to think about it for too much, fearing the magic will respond. Tonight curiosity drives you to seek out the magic, searching for that foreign presence running tandem with your bloodstream. There's a second in which you forget to breathe, so focused you are on the constant throb of pain coming from your hand, waiting with bated breath for a shift, a _change-_

 

Through your closed eyelids you see green and when you open your eyes the palm of your hand is alight with green flames. Unlike the one you have unknowingly summoned before, this manifestation of fire does not burn. Seconds pass in which you do nothing but watch the movements of the flames, starting from the palm of your hand and flickering in and out of existence to languidly brush at your fingertips. Your hand feels warm and tingly as if millions of ants are marching along your skin.

_What now?_

 

You flex your hand, clenching and unclenching your fist with deliberate slowness. The flames continue their dance, unperturbed by your movement.

 

You must have fallen asleep at some point because the next time you blink you are not in the roundhouse playing with forces you cannot understand but somewhere small and cramped and you cannot see a thing.

 

Your mind is calm, be it from an unconscious sense of safety or a lack of connection to your feelings. The marked hand - will this be how you continue to refer to an appendage that has been part of you since birth? - does not hurt anymore; instead of pain you perceive a heightened temperature, a warmness that travels up your hand and envelops the entirety of your being.

 

At the same time a pit opens inside your chest, wide and empty like the mouth of a great creature. It is alive but _so **hungry**._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnnnng, writing Solas makes me feel dumb, I'll never be able to do the mighty Egg justice hnnnng.
> 
> Another chapter up, time to crawl back under my rock.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning comes and with it you gather your party and proceed towards the rift closest to the refugees camp. The sun glares down on your party, almost too bright in its intensity and what little metal has been attached to your armor for extra protection burns in contact with bare skin. You can't help but wince every time you glance at Cassandra and her heavy armor.

 

You push on, Solas, Varric and Cassandra at your back along with a handful of Inquisition scouts leading the way. Avoiding the local fauna, your group continues their trek until the first rift emerges in your line of sight.

 

The others stop, crouching low to the ground and keeping their eyes trained on their surroundings for any sign of demons.

 

"Ready?" One of the scouts whispers. The others nod; you wish you could mimic their courage but the thought of demons like the ones at the Temple of Sacred Ashes is enough to make a cold shiver run down your spine.

 

A hand grasps your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We will keep the demons at bay. Stay back and focus your efforts on closing the rift." Solas. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry _\- it's happening again, you're walking on your own volition into a battle but this time there are no bandits but **demons** againwhatareyou_doing _turnback_ now _!-_ a nod is the only response you can muster.

 

The scouts break off from your group, moving through tall grass and shadows to position themselves on the other side of the rift. Your party sits unmoving. Save from the continuous hum emerging from the rift, the silence around you is ominous.

 

There's the faint sound of birdsong before Cassandra draws her blade. "They're in position. Let's move." Your group straightens approaching the rift with slow, careful steps. You follow, mind wrestling with the fight or flight instinct that's causing your hands to shake.

 

What if the mark doesn't work this time? What if what happened at the temple was nothing more than _luck_ , and you've traveled this far for nothing?

 

"Incoming!" So wrapped up you are in your own thoughts that you miss the opening of the rift: it cracks like thunder, sending bolts of sickly green energy in every direction. The earth around it shifts as if at the mercy of the rift's gravitational pull. You have no time to gather your bearings as Varric's voice cuts through the silence at the same time as the rift spits out a ball of green fire that shoots out with so much force, it's impact on the ground causes pieces of the earth around it to go flying before it eventually reaches a stop.

 

The fire slows, stutters and you watch almost transfixed how the flames curl downward, turning into a writing mass of goo. Unconsciously your feet bring you closer, fear giving way to curiosity. Inside the squirming mass is a demon trapped in what seems to be an almost translucent membrane. It shifts once again, one spindly appendage breaking through the mucus-like film. The entire experience raises thoughts of reptiles to the front of your mind but you have never seen the likeness of it anywhere in nature.

 

"What's it doing?" Cassandra's voice breaks the silence and causes the lazy shifting of the demon to stop. You hold your breath and take a step back-

 

With a high-pitched screech that could most probably break glass were any of it nearby, the demon breaks free of its confines and rises to its full height towering over you and the members of your party. There is a moment in which no one dares move but the moment is broken by yet another screech - the sound is a mix of human and aviary and makes you think of birds of prey. With a leap, the demon dives under the ground with not so much as a blade of grass disturbed.

 

Varric groans. "Not one of these bastards-" The ground opens, small hole illuminated by green and the demon emerges right beneath Solas. The apostate is flung off several feet, back hitting the ground with bruising force.

 

And with that, the fight begins. Two more balls of flame are spat out of the rift, one of the demons inside them meeting its end before having the chance to emerge: Cassandra raises her sword and with a battle cry she drives her blade down on one of the cocoons in three attacks that leave the demon twitching before its form disintegrates into tiny little specks that rush back towards the rift in small clusters.

 

"Little help would be appreciated!" Varric calls out at the same time as Cassandra turns towards you, eyes burning: "Close it! Now!"

 

Your hand raises of its own accord and you take a deep breath doing your best to focus on the task at hand instead of the chaos around you. You point the mark at the rift, feeling your skin crawl with an electric energy that makes your breath stutter. The image of a great mouth flashes in your mind's eye - _closed but hungry; always hungry_. Squeezing your eyes shut you will it open with every inch of your trembling body.

 

Somewhere to the left of you an arrow cuts through the air and finds purchase into flesh. The inhuman screech that follows is enough to make you falter but your gamble pays off and you feel the mouth opening slowly, like a cavern inside your torso and as you open your eyes you see the mark connected to the rift by a sliver of energy that blinks in and out of sight as if unable to fully manifest.

 

You don't know what pushes you to walk closer, arm extended and your voice is not your own when you command it to _feed_ but somewhere between the mark flaring to life like a beacon and the rift breaking into chunks that rush towards your hand and disappear into the mark, you gather your bearings in time to be thrown off your feet from the force.

 

The tell-tale sounds of battle filter back into your ears and you look up just in time to see the last terror demon fall frozen to the ground and shatter upon the impact.

 

"One rift down, a dozen more to go." Varric's comment seems to ease the tension in the area. From your sprawled position on the ground, you choose to watch him for a couple of moments, eyes following his form as he walks around and gathers whatever intact arrows he can find.

 

"We don't have to close them all in one day, do we?" Your voice scratches at your vocal chords and the tone of the question is not quite right but no one mentions it and you're thankful for that. Cassandra walks over, sheathing her sword as her free hand grasps one of your arms and with seemingly no effort, hauls you to your feet.

 

"There are more rifts in the area. After we deal with them we can make our way to master Dennet's farm."

 

You continue deeper into the Hinterlands and manage to close one more rift. The mark burns, causing uncontrollable spasms to travel through your arm and the hunt for the remaining rifts is postponed until the following day. With that, your group makes its way back to the crossroads in various states of exhaustion and as the others return to their respective housing you collapse into the makeshift bed inside the roundhouse choosing to ignore the hardwood digging into your shoulders. The familiar drowsiness that comes with exhaustion settles like a fog over your brain and before you know it you are asleep.

 

* * *

 

Inside your dreams, you sit cross-legged with your back to a living room and facing a massive mirror whose surface ripples ever so slightly. You look around, recognizing your surroundings as figments of your life: there, on the wooden coffee table scattered magazines lay about, edges stained with tea. In the corner of the room you spy your laptop, lid closed and sitting on a desk that is probably the most organized it’s ever been. The interior of the chamber does not reflect in the mirror - in its place you see only darkness. Your reflection mirrors your posture and appearance, eyes stained by green fire and marked hand occasionally flaring to life.

 

You blink. Mirror-you shifts, one corner of its mouth raising in a crooked smile.

 

A small part of your awareness shifts, expanding outward and recognizing the familiar presence entering your dreams - malachite eyes and frayed clothing flashes in your mind's eye but just as you're about to tear your eyes away from the mirror and greet the entity that has been watching over your part of the Fade ever since arriving at Haven your reflection snarls, a word of denial on its tongue and the faint glimmer of razor sharp teeth. The presence vanishes as if pushed away; as if _denied entrance._

 

You spend the rest of your dream staring at your reflection.

 

It smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the mirror is not an Eluvian. Yes the entity is Solas being his usual creeper somniari self.
> 
> Spent too much time writing a 10,000 word essay to properly dish out beautiful descriptions, just bear with me for now.
> 
> Did I mention this story drags the canon into a dark alley and steals all its money? Because I feel like I should mention that at some point.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where you can /see/ my outline waving goodbye.

 You’re slipping. The constant stress you’re forced to carry is taking its toll on you. Little things, at first.

 

Small spasms in your hands when you hold the daggers. The craftsmanship is simple but the handle fits in your hand and the blade shimmers blue in the sunlight so you figure it’s not simple metal. You’d like to admire them, someday, as decorations rather than weapons. Put them somewhere where you’re sure no one will touch them – including yourself. Is that too naïve?

 

The nightmares. They hound you. Not night terrors this time, mercifully, but vague shapes; outlines of teeth and green and spindly appendages that don’t disappear when you open your eyes. As a matter of fact waking up only serves to make them more _real_ because at the end of the day that’s what you’re fighting. Battling demons only this time they’re not in your head.

 

Short attention span. You used to direct your mind on a single task for hours on end, blocking any outside interference. It’s how you passed through college with relative ease compared to some of your classmates, how you managed to complete assignments in days after being announced. Now, you have difficulty focusing on some of the conversations around you and your responses take a long time to form. You tried to read the healer’s journal but gave up after the fifth page – and the only thing to blame is this mark on your hand that comes alive at odd times during the day. Making sure you never forget it’s there. As if you could. It’s _maddening._

 

And the _fear._ Perched on your shoulder at all times, it’s a wonder your sanity still stands. You need help. Not the kind they offer - with weapons and training and _prodding,_ you need _professional help_ ; someone to sit you down and let you vent for however long you need to, someone who can assure you this is _real_ and you're not for some reason trapped inside your head playing through an unnaturally vivid hallucination.

 

You don’t think such help exists here – and if it did, it is out of your reach.

 

This morning the tremors in your hands are more pronounced than usual and the apostate has to remind you several times to finish the breakfast in front of you. Breakfast? You don’t remember leaving the roundhouse, let alone joining him around the campfire. He says something about Cassandra and Varric helping the huntsman once more but when you lift your eyes and try to focus on Solas your vision swims.

 

Good. Two less people staring you down today though the single pair of eyes fixed on your frame does not lessen the burning intensity. You can _feel_ the attention, the assessment, like hundreds of insects crawling on your skin. Words bubble up but they stick in your throat. You’re grateful for that; you get the feeling some of them might have been screams and normal _sane_ people don’t scream their head off for no reason.

 

But do you truly have no reason?

 

When you look up you are startled to find Solas leaning towards you, expectant. You blink; has he asked you a question?

 

“I did. Are you certain you’re well?” You cannot help the sigh that escapes you. The apostate is becoming pushier than usual.

 

Normally you are able to brush away his questions regarding the state of your hand and up until now you have been oddly successful at dodging his so-called inspections. The potion maker in Haven talked about how him and Solas had been tending to you in one of the huts before you awoke. Days, he said, of you trapped in a comatose state; they weren’t sure you’d ever regain consciousness.

 

You suppose you should be thankful. Part of the reason you woke up was because of the large amounts of healing magic poured into your body every day. The potion maker tried to explain it but he wasn’t a mage so his descriptions fell short and Solas has remained silent on the matter – not that you bothered to ask. Something tells you you do not want to know what lengths they had to go to in order to achieve even the tiniest chance you’d wake up but the curiosity still stands.

 

You’re curious but not enough to sit through one of his checkups. The thought makes small hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and you’re not even sure why. It’s not like the man – **elf** – _man_ ever did anything to warrant your wariness it’s just…

 

This world.

 

So you straighten your back, tilt your head up and meet his eyes the best you can. “Of course.” Even if you’re not, you have to be. Isn’t that what they want from you? An example to the people. Stay strong, unmoved, show them there is nothing to fear; the Inquisition will close the Breach. _Isn’t that why they keep you alive?_   “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

His brows draw together and he bows his head, gesturing with his chin towards your hands. You look down in confusion.

 

It takes you a while to focus your attention enough to even attempt to process what you’re seeing and even then, you see nothing wrong with the sight before you. The marked hand glows as usual, dripping green energy like an infected, oozing wound and the other-

 

The other has been slowly but steadily charring one side of your bowl and burning through most of the leather on your gloves.

 

“You failed to mention your magical aptitude. I imagine Seeker Cassandra will be quite furious.”

 

You swallow. “I’m not a mage.” But your unmarked hand flickers with orange flames.

 

“Your meal would disagree.”

 

“Must be the mark.” You croak, mouth dry. Your answers are too stoic. Why? You lift your head to look back at the apostate only he’s higher because now he’s standing up instead of sitting and you didn’t even notice him standing. _Something’s wrong._

 

“Will you accept my help now?” You will. You can’t _not_ accept it at this point so you stand up on unsteady feet and head back towards the roundhouse. Away from prying eyes. Don’t rush, keep your back straight. What would they think now, is the Herald still an _example?_

 

You would much rather isolate yourself and attempt to diagnose your ailment alone but do you honestly have the time and the luxury for such a thing? You were lucky today, to be away from Cassandra’s presence. She would have struck you down at the first sign of magic, of that you’re certain. No. Not past. She _will_ strike you down because at some point in the future the knowledge will reach her and all you have done to alleviate the suspicion placed on you as the cause of the Breach will not matter because the accusations will return tenfold now that _you can wield magic._

 

Once inside you sit on the unmade bed and blink at the minuscule ice crystals formed on your blankets. Something’s terribly wrong.

 

“Your magic is lashing out. What happened?” He asks, voice painfully casual. You toy with the idea of lying, of deflecting your way out of this conversation but you taste ash on the back of your tongue and your heartbeat stutters. Better to confess than to end up a mindless husk in an unknown land.

 

“There’s something in my dreams.” You whisper in an effort to keep your voice even. The lump in your throat is bigger now but you push through it; Solas’s face blurs. This was the catalyst, wasn’t it? You could deal with the stress, you could deal with the monsters popping up like toadstools after rain, you have dealt with their prodding but the moment the big bad thing enters your imaginary bubble you break? _Pathetic._ “It’s wearing my face.”

 

The silence that follows is heavy and occasionally broken by the sounds of life outside your door.

 

“I can help,” He says at last, when your nerves are almost shot and the tiniest bubble of restlessness begins to manifest. “Do you trust me?”

 

The laugh that escapes you is sharp and it startles you both. “You ask too much.”

 

“Will you let me try, at least? It may not solve the problem but it will be enough to keep you from losing control of your newfound magic.” Of course you accept. Was there even a choice to begin with?

 

He holds his palms out, waiting; you hesitate for what seems like minutes but in the end work up the nerve to place your hands in his. Your back aches with how straight you’re standing. You can almost feel each muscle tensing as your hands touch – his hands are colder than yours.

 

You are advised to close your eyes and release your tension but you keep your eyes open, unwilling to shift your attention. The marked hand pulses at the contact – should it do that? It never reacted like this before. Granted, you cannot remember when was the last time you touched a person of your own accord. A thought rises to the front of your mind about how people need human contact to survive or remain sane but you push it back with perhaps too much force than necessary and decide to focus on relaxing your muscles.

 

Something pokes at you. Prods. Twists and turns and if you weren’t keeping your eyes open you would have sworn the sensations were real. They still are, just not… there. You cannot see the thing that inspects you like a newly created contraption. You can only feel the push and pull of something deep inside your chest. The mark spits in response, green energy falling to the ground, harmless.

 

“You were telling the truth. You are not a mage.”

 

“How do you know?” His eyes remain closed but a corner of his mouth twitches.

 

“You lack a magical core. Somewhere to store your mana. The mark seems to be pulling at the ambient energy and converting it but it has no place to go so it’s released back into the environment.”

 

“I leak mana.” You state out loud. The phrase sounds as ridiculous as it did in your head.  The apostate tilts his head to the side and cracks an eye open to peer at you.

 

“Tactfully put.”

 

“Can you fix it?”

 

“ _I_ cannot. _You_ can learn to expel it in a less noticeable way, should you wish to.”

 

Of course you want to.

 

There’s something odd about this situation, something you can’t quite put your finger on; you can’t focus enough to find the cause of the dread.  His eyes are now open and awaiting your response. The mark flares once more, unusually active in his presence. Is it because he’s a mage?

 

 “Teach me.” You have no reason to refuse but the words are heavy and your mouth feels like cotton.

 

 He smiles, slow and deliberate and so _pleased_. Why is he so pleased?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started with horses and fade rifts. How did it end up like this?
> 
> What is plot? (Solas don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)


	6. Chapter 6

After the events in the roundhouse you expect to wake up in the middle of the night and see the looming shape of the Seeker, sword held high as she declares you a suspect once more. The first nights are spent in a fitful sleep, worrying about something you cannot control. You’d call yourself stupid for exposing the magic granted by the mark but you have enough sense to understand that your panic attack was a long time coming; there was nothing you could do to stop it. You only wish that the next one will find you blessedly away from prying eyes.

 

Caution and suspicion has made you avoid the apostate for the remainder of your stay in the Hinterlands. The once polite remarks have been downgraded to silence as you stare into your meal and ignore the conversations around you. If the rest of your party notices, they make no comment on it. Everything goes as long as you close the rifts, you suppose. It's not that you don't want to understand what's happening to you; having no control of your body or mind is one of your nightmares, as a matter of fact. But what you need now is to process your situation and decide on a course of action: hiding your _magic_ would not be beneficial in the long run - and being the one to confess instead of the apostate would probably go a long way to building some kind of trust with the Inquisition. All that remains is the timing.

 

You dreams do not change – remnants of your world blend with Thedas; you walk the halls of your apartment complex overgrown with flora and in the distance you can hear the screech of massive flying shapes. Other times you get lost amidst trees as tall as skyscrapers and watch the darkened forest for any sign of malachite eyes. The mirror never fails to appear but the demon wearing your face inside it has done nothing but observe. Sometimes you stare back and it mirrors your tiniest movements. There is no difference between you two save for the sharp teeth and predatory glint in its eyes. Not so similar after all.

 

In the evening you spend your time thinking about the Inquisition. Started without the approval of the Chantry – or any other important political figure other than the words of a long-dead Divine towards the completion of one goal: sealing the Breach. You wonder what will happen once their mission is completed.

 

No. _Your_ mission.

 

You are now part of the Inquisition, are you not? You are the one rushing about, closing tears in the Veil, after all. Another question forms in your mind: what will happen to you once this is over? Will you be set aside, discarded by the ones in charge because the Mark has fulfilled its purpose? There are many that wonder about its origin – you included – and others that have surely begun studying the rifts. You will not be allowed to leave. _Not with the Mark._

 

The most favorable ending you can hope for is serving the remainder of your days as a test subject in some prestigious magical university, being poked and prodded by people who care more about the outcome than the means of achieving it. You don’t blame them, you would do the same: hunger for knowledge and all that.

 

And yet, understanding their motives does not make your sleep any peaceful.

* * *

 

The meeting with Horsemaster Dennet passes by in a blur. He wants outposts built, wolves and bandits killed and a stray druffalo returned. Cassandra promises all that and more if he joins his mounts in Haven. The man takes the remainder of the day to ponder his decision and you are invited in his home for dinner. Cassandra’s request is not simple; he will be leaving his family in the middle of nowhere with mages and Templars killing each other only a few miles away. Nevertheless, he voices his agreement at dinner: he and his mounts will be accompanying you on the way back to Haven.

 

Days are spent preparing the horses for the road. You close the rifts at Dwarfson's Pass and unintentionally convince a group of cultists to join the Inquisition.

 

You later realize, as the rest of your party choose their mounts, that you have never touched a horse let alone known how to ride one. Your incompetence must have been painfully obvious for Cassandra claps a hand on your shoulder and points to her horse, where one of the stable hands is strapping in a saddle that’s twice as long compared to the others.

 

“Come. I am eager to return. You will learn once we arrive.” And so you find yourself on top of her mount, legs tensed around the horse’s ribs because you have nothing to hold on to. You can feel every shift of the animal and it makes your spine tense. There's something about this particular situation - be it the complete lack of control in the direction you move or the supposed trust you must extend to the beast below you in not throwing you off its back - which you do not enjoy. Behind you, Cassandra does a thing with her hands where she snaps the reins and _tsks_ and you feel the horse moving. Your heart skips a beat and your hands grasp at air trying to find purchase on something - anything.

 

“If you continue your flailing the horse will throw us off.” An arm snakes around your middle, pulling you closer to the woman and despite the more secure spot, parts of her armor dig into your back. You swallow your discomfort and try to hide the grimace that sticks to your expressions for the remainder of the journey.

* * *

You arrive at Haven exhausted and sore in places you would rather not mention out loud. The added stress of watching the mounts and making sure no bandits try to ambush your party took a toll on everyone.

 

Cassandra and you are the first to dismount. “We should head to the Chantry; let the others know we arrived.” You offer a nod in response and proceed to follow her lead through the gates, trying not to limp too noticeably.

 

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!”

 

“Lies! Your kind let her die!” Voices drift down – angry, frustrated and big enough in numbers to make your steps falter. Unlike you Cassandra presses on, steps quickening.

 

“Enough!” The word cuts through the air like whip. There’s a brief period of silence in which the two of you reach the top of the stairway and spot the mob gathered in front of the Chantry doors. Men and women in armor that proudly displays a flaming sword – the Templar Order, you learned, when one of them threatened to rid you of magic the day you woke up. His threats were ridiculous at the time but now you cannot help falling back behind Cassandra. The remaining people directly opposite them must be the mages, then. You think back on the Hinterlands and the war between the two factions – whatever this scuffle seems to be about, at least they have not resorted to fighting. Yet. One ice spell clawing its way up your chest was enough to make you wary.

 

From the corner of your eye you spy robes of white and red and for a second you can hear the blood rushing in your ears and the anger you have been trying to control burns white-hot and sharpens into a needle. “Chancellor Roderick. I thought he returned to the grand clerics?”

 

“I thought so too.” Cassandra adds. As the two of you wake your way over, the crowd slowly disperses leaving Chancellor Roderick yelling and flailing about in the face of a stoic Commander. The sight would have been humorous if not for the already proven threat one Chantry official possesses. Wasn’t _he_ the one to convince the clerics to brand you a heretic?

“What is the meaning of this?” Cassandra demands, almost towering over the chancellor. The Commander – Cullen, was it? – runs a hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. There are bags under his eyes and a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth that seems to grow with every word coming out of the chancellor's mouth. You can't blame him; the chancellor's voice drips arrogance and self-entitlement like venom on a snake's fangs.

 

“Mages and Templars are now blaming each other for the Divine’s death-“

 

“Which is why we require the _proper_ authority to guide them back to order!” The Chancellor cuts in, voice louder than it’s supposed to be. The attempt at gathering another crowd fails.

 

“Who, _you_? Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?

 

“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not.”

 

Anger drives you to step forward. “You speak of order as if your Chantry has not reverted to the status of an ant colony without a queen. Your Chantry officials are more concerned with the lack of a leader than the Breach. If we're to sit and wait for the Divine's guidance, that thing would swallow this world.”

His eyes remain fixed on Cullen. “A Divine will be chosen in due time. Andraste will be our guide, not some dazed wanderer on a mountainside.” _Cowards._ He would rather wait and pass the burden to the head of his religion rather than decide on a course of action. As if their Divine will magically know the solution to the apocalypse.

 

“Why are you here, Chancellor?” You question, voice coming out more forceful than you intended. The only response you are graced with - if it can even be called a response - is a cursory glance that speaks volumes about his opinion of you. After all the trouble he went through to sully your 'reputation' as the Herald, he cannot even be bothered to acknowledge you? How childish. You can feel your hand twitch, fingertips brushing over the hilt of a dagger before a firm hand settles between your shoulder blades and guides you inside the Chantry.

 

Cassandra's heavily accented voice filters through the pounding in your ears. “Turning him away would not favor the Inquisition. We still want the support of the Chantry.”

 

“He is also what you will face in Val Royeaux. How is the situation in the Hinterlands?” Cullen follows her lead with not so much as a parting word to the chancellor.

 

Cassandra grunts. “The fighting has spread to Redcliffe's gates but we know nothing of what's happening past the Hinterlands. Has Leliana found out how widespread it is?”

 

“Impossible to say but the explosion renewed the war between the two factions which is why we must go to Val Royeaux and deal with the problem as soon as possible.”

 

“Let us hope we find solutions and not a cathedral full of Chancellors.” Cassandra mutters and Cullen responds with an amused huff. The door to the Ambassador's office opens and Josephine steps out, meeting your gaze.

 

"You're back; I thought I heard familiar voices." Her voice echoes around the stone walls of the building.

 

"We acquired the horses. Did Mother Giselle arrive safely?"

 

"Ah, yes, she and Adan have been gathering supplies for the injured. They will be sent to the Hinterlands along with any other provisions we can spare. We need to discuss the matter of the grand clerics."

 

Cassandra perks up. "Any word from Val Royeaux?"

 

"Nothing good. Any attempts to gather allies against the Breach have been rejected on the basis that the Inquisition has been declared heretical. We must first convince the Chantry to permit us entry into the city for an audience otherwise we will not step foot in the capital without being attacked by a mob or arrested. So far, my letters have not been answered."

 

"Are they blind to the danger we face?" Josephine shakes her head, seemingly unaffected by Cassandra's frustrated growl.

 

"For now, all we can do is wait."

 

"So we sit around and do nothing?"

 

"Not quite." You jump, startled at the sudden arrival. The Inquisition's Spymaster steps out of the shadows without making a sound. The display is impressive and eerie considering the building's stone floors and acoustics. Her lips quirk into a welcoming smile that directly opposes the ice in her eyes. "It's a matter of influence; to make ourselves known, the Inquisition needs agents in more places. I believe that's something the Herald can help with; you handled the cultists at Lornan's Exile well enough."

 

"What do you want me to do?"

 

"Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais but they have also disappeared. The timing is... curious. Others have disregarded my suspicion but I cannot ignore it. Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. If you have the opportunity, I would encourage seeking him out."

 

An order hidden beneath the illusion of choice. Was there ever any doubt of your answer? "Of course."

 

The next journey to the Hinterlands is scheduled in a week and you are left to your own devices for the time being. A bath has been prepared for you courtesy of the Ambassador and you spend the rest of your evening letting its warmth soothe your muscles before returning to your cabin for a night of - _finally_ \- undisturbed sleep.

* * *

The makeshift tavern in the middle of Haven is... familiar. The smell is questionable and the alcohol served tastes like death but the stream of background noise and cheer remains the same no matter what world you find yourself in so for the moment you have chosen to leave the dark corners of your cabin in favor of a lighter atmosphere.

 

You lean back in your chair, feet propped up on the wooden table, _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ opened on your thighs - one of the few books stored in the Chantry's public bookshelves that has no relation to Andrastianism. A roll of parchment sits on the table, names and titles jotted down in a hand no better than chicken scratch.

 

_Avvar  -  Alammarri  - Andraste? Blight. Circle of Magi.  Bannorn. ~~Higve~~ Highever.  Landsmeet. _

 

Had you been a diligent student and not skipped most of your high school history classes, you would have probably known the difference between a king, arl and a bann  History was never your strong suit and being spit out of the sky like a flavorless piece of gum will not make you magically better at retaining such knowledge.

 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to focus on the book. One of the tavern keepers slides past your table with a cleaning rag in one hand and several mugs in the other.

 

_"Called 'the Frozen Teeth' by the dwarves, the Frostback Mountains form the primary divide between the nation of Ferelden in the east and the Orlesian Empire in the west. Only Gherlen's Pass is considered safe for year-round travel. The hardy Avvars also make their homes in the mountains, driven into the heights after centuries of constant warfare with the hated 'lowlanders'."_

 

"Good book?" Solas's voice rises above the steady murmur of other patrons and you straighten up, letting the chair's front legs fall down to the floor with a dull thud.

 

"Solas. Lunch time already?" It feels like hardly an hour passed since you stepped foot inside the establishment and that was little after breakfast.

 

"Seeker Cassandra informed me of your whereabouts." He glances around the tavern, hands clasped behind his back and you take the opportunity to fold the parchment and stick it between the book's pages, which you place on the table face-down. When his eyes meet yours you gesture to the empty chair on the opposite side of the table and he inclines his head, accepting your invitation.

 

"What do you need?"

 

"An examination. It has been quite some time since your Mark has been tended to." You tilt your head back and watch the man through half-lidded eyes. Since your return at Haven three days ago you have chosen to ignore the matter of the Mark and its magic, focusing on books about Thedas' history and geography. The only map you have seen is the one inside the Chantry and with every subtle glance during meetings your knowledge of this world expands.

 

But not fast _enough_. You need to exercise caution in this particular endeavor; you cannot simply borrow all the books you'd like and hoard them until you have memorized everything and your request for a personal map has yet to be fulfilled. But at least now you know that there are other countries like Orlais, Antiva, Rivain, Par Vollen and Tevinter along with their respective capitals. The latter was hailed as a place where the blood of slaves runs through the streets, granting mages powers otherwise forbidden outside of the Imperium  You can't deny your curiosity but the Chantry in Haven holds no books on the Tevinter Imperium, unsurprisingly.

 

The fact that your fervent research has left you with no time to seek the apostate is merely a very convenient coincidence.

 

"What would this entail?"

 

"I would like to examine its growth as well as release any ambient magic that may have gathered inside it. May I suggest a change in venue?" His motives sound practiced but you see nothing amiss. Your mental state has remained unchanged - stable enough to prevent any violent emotional outbursts and the rifts absorbed at Dwarfson's Pass seem to have sated the Mark for the time being. There has been no need for you to seek the apostate and request his help in ridding you of magic - as odd as that sounds. He has yet to teach you how to do it on your own but again, whose fault is that?

 

You gather the book in your arms - upside down, front cover facing you - and stand up.

 

"Very well." The two of you make your way outside. Cold winds bite at your fingertips and when you examine your surroundings you are taken aback at the dimness of the sky. How long have you sat there, reading, exactly? Solas turns towards you, hands clasped behind his back.

 

"Would you be more comfortable with your cabin?"

 

You cannot help the humorless smile that claws its way on your face. "Can mages not feel lingering energies? I don't believe that would be wise."

 

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes catching the light of the massive bonfire at the heart of Haven. They seem almost appraising, a lingering thought that grows into certitude the longer your question remains unanswered.

 

"You are not concerned with the possible rumors?" You blink, not understanding the implications but manage not to frown when you remember this world's views on modesty and your supposed noble status.

 

"I am certain Josephine will deal with anything that could stain the _Herald image_." He nods, taking another long moment to study your expression. The actions makes hairs on the back of your neck prickle but you meet his unblinking gaze and refuse to shift or show any signs of discomfort. Eventually he breaks eye contact and gestures to the pathway in front of you.

 

The walk towards his cabin is spent in silence. His presence continues to make you uneasy but since you do not know the reason for your mind’s negative reaction towards him you decide to ignore the constant shiver running down your spine and focus on the cabin ahead.

 

He opens the door for you and as you step inside you take the time to analyze your surroundings. The difference in temperature is noticeable, its source being the fireplace in the opposite side of the room. A warm glow illuminates what little possessions you see lying about: a bed similar to yours, some books, a shelf of jars and dried plants as well as two closed chests on each side of a desk that holds several pieces of used parchment.

 

“Have a seat.” You make your way towards the bed and sit down on the edge, meeting Solas’s eyes expectantly. You are here of your own volition, no need to act awkward because last time your emotions got the better of you; it was justified.

 

“Will you be teaching me how to expel mana on my own?”

 

“I can begin teaching you but the process will take longer than one evening, I’m afraid.” The wooden chair at the desk is placed in front of the bed, making you straighten up from the slight slouch. Solas sits down and holds his hands out, mirroring the motions in the roundhouse. You raise your Marked hand but hesitate – again – when it sputters green energy.

 

“Has the Mark been bothering you?” You glance at his face to see his eyes already closed. The warmth of his hands travels up your arm. Gritting your teeth, you resist the impulse to yank your hand away. Has human contact become such a bother to you?

 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. Sometimes it’s dormant, other times not.” You hesitate, uncertain whether you should mention the way it seems to eat rifts but reason that if anyone should know it would be Solas – he did tend to your Mark while you were unconscious. He also knows of your false mage status but has chosen to keep silent on the matter. You suppose your wariness is uncalled for and decide to offer the information as a sign of trust as well as apology. “It feels hungry.”

 

Your gaze was already fixed on his face so you do not miss the slight furrow in his brow and how his eyes open in curiosity.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“When it connects to the rifts – you said it should close them. That means it has to feed energy into the rift for it to close, correct?”

 

“Simply put, yes.”

 

“It doesn’t. It eats away at it until the rift vanishes. I can _feel_ it doing it.” His hands twitch around yours as if surprised. There’s a pause while his eyes focus on a point behind you, in which you can almost see gears turning in his head before his eyes close once again. The silence stretches on.

 

And then his magic reaches out and tugs at the Mark. You feel it as a physical tug on your hand and tense your muscles but in reality neither one of you move. The Mark flares to life, wide and oozing green. It looks like ghostly plasma then like ash then like green specks of light that are replaced by the occasional flicker of flame. The Mark’s energy seems to be constantly shifting, never remaining in one form for too long. It’s almost fascinating.

 

“Does it feel hungry now?”

 

“It didn’t since we closed the last rifts.”

 

“Ah.” More prodding. Now that you are not distracted by harsh breaths and disorientation you can feel everything with startling clarity. You didn’t even know it was possible for you to feel another's mana – energy – given the fact that you are not a true mage but your hand burns and vibrates in his hands. When you blink, the image of your hand blanketed by another’s energy flickers behind your eyelids. Like heat waves.

 

“It was closed, but still gathering energy. It doesn’t seem to be storing it however; it’s directing it inside your body. The only thing it keeps is the magic of the rifts.”

“How can you tell?”

 

“Each energy has a different signature. I have been studying the rifts enough to know how to differentiate between their magic and others.”

 

“Can you tell what’s it doing with the remaining energy?” His eyes open once more to meet yours. Another period of extended silence passes in which you feel like a sample under a microscope. His expression remains neutral – always neutral, it’s the eyes that give people away – as he opens his mouth to answer you, voice little higher than a whisper.

 

“I… don’t think that would be appropriate.” You frown. Have you crossed some unknown mage etiquette?

 

“The act of examining someone’s energy is rather intimate. To a non-mage like yourself it could prove uncomfortable. Even painful if not done right.” You take a moment to digest his words, teeth pulling at the dry skin on your lips.

 

“I can feel,” You begin, struggling to find the right words to explain something you don’t even know what it is in the first place. “the Mark when it’s eating. When it’s hungry. I can feel your energy when you’re interacting with it. I couldn’t before.” When you meet his eyes once more he looks taken aback at your sudden intensity.

 

“I want to know what this thing is doing with my body.”

 

A nod. “Very well.”

 

You hold your breath, waiting – for what, you don’t kn-

 

Blood rushes in your ears. It roars, so loud you wouldn’t be able to hear Solas were he to speak, rushing faster and faster until your eyes water. Then it travels to your brain and your entire body vibrates in time with the roar of the blood, spots gathering in the corner of your vision, rushing, rising until your mind follows suit and you feels so light-headed you don’t know if you will pass out of float away -

 

A tug at something in the middle of your chest, so light it’s either unintentional or very cautious but it’s enough to make the air escape your lungs with such force you imagine this is what it would feel like to be punched in the gut.

 

The sensations vanish though the haze lingers over your brain and you watch through squinted eyes how Solas opens his with a full-body twitch. His hands release your Marked hand but it doesn’t seem to register on his face.

“Well?” Your voice is breathier than intended and you doubt the clearing of your throat helps very much. “What’s wrong?”

 

“You-“ A pit opens inside your chest at the tone of his voice. Strained, unbelieving. His eyes look brighter in the light but that can’t be true.

 

“The Mark. Its building you a magical core.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ProblemTM #1 officially introduced. She likes kittens, long walks on the beach and she did not want to be written /at all/. Also she was not what I planned for when I started this chapter. It was supposed to end with Josephine!
> 
> Goddamn elves shoving other characters aside like calm down Dumbledore, I did not put my name into the Goblet of Fire. 
> 
> Please point out any mistakes you find, my brain is fried from reading the same thing over and over again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello, this is your friendly resident writer putting a Trigger Warning before the chapter. I've also placed it in the tags :3

Ten steps to the door. Turn. Ten steps to the fireplace. Turn. Ten steps to the door.

 

“You said I wasn’t a mage.” The words come out harsher than intended and it’s only after you’ve spoken that you realize the sharp blade of your emotions has been trained on him the whole time. The accusation floats in the air around you, an unspoken series of _Why couldn’t you tell sooner? You are supposed to keep this thing in check, are you not? Why could you not remove it?_ It’s unnecessary – you should be grateful he volunteered to help; there are not many mages in the Inquisition as it is – but even while you tell yourself that, the blade’s edge remains sharp.

 

“You’re not. It seems the Mark is not pleased by that.” Your lips stretch, curling away from your teeth but you school your expression as best you can by the time you turn around. Ten steps to the door. Turn.

 

 _Alien._ No. Focus. “Has this ever happened before? Mages being… made.”

 

Ten steps to the fireplace. Turn.

 

“I have yet to come across such information in my travels.” You hear the creak of the wooden floor but you refuse to look his way, eyes straining to focus on the dwindling flames in front of you. “Herald, I understand this is unexpe-“ In the corner of the room, the shadows jump in time with the flames.

 

You shake your head and make the mistake of looking back. His eyes are trained on you with an unsettling intensity. It seems different, somehow. Colder – as if the puzzle he’s been working on turned out to have more sides than expected. Has he always been this focused on the people he converses with?

 

The lump in your throat grows. It pulses and hurts like a great stone blocking your words and making your eyes sting. “No. You don’t understand.” You whisper because you do not think yourself capable of raising your voice without losing control of your emotions. His words echo in your ears, a constant mantra of _magemagemagemage_ that makes your heart stutter. Despite your lack of knowledge you know enough about how mages are treated in Thedas and you are not so naïve as to hope your fate will be different.

 

It feels like swinging too high from the ground. It feels like falling. It _sounds_ like whispers, creeping up from the back of your mind.

 

“They will think I lied. You don’t lie to something called _The Inquisition_ , Solas! I-“ Your vision is blurry and you bite the tip of your tongue as hard as you can but it does little to remedy the situation. You will _not_ allow yourself the weakness of shedding tears in front of these _strangers_. Not here. Not in this world. In an effort to keep your eyes dry, your gaze jumps around the room. The fire. The desk. The shadows. The eerie stillness of the _elf_ in front of you.

 

You look at his ears and feel like screaming. _You shouldn’t be here._ Blood rushes into your ears, drowning out his response. _You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here?_

 

“Herald?” _Why did you think you can trust anyone? They will tear you apart given the chance and the right incentive – did you think you were safe just because they were being polite?_

 

_Fool. He’s part of the Inquisition. He’s one of them._

 

“It’s late. We will speak tomorrow, Solas.” He tries to say something but between the panic building in your chest and the constant barrage of whispers you feel like suffocating. You have made a mistake.

 

Seven steps to the door. _Keep going._

 

* * *

 

The walk back to your cabin feels surreal. Cold helps numb you both physically and emotionally and by the time you close the wooden door and lean on it you can pretend that the shivers passing through your body are only caused by the weather.

 

You don’t make it to the bed, instead collapsing into a chair shoved absentmindedly next to the door, hands covering your face.

 

_Run._

 

It doesn’t work; pretending not to see the world around you, as if that would make it any less real. You have tried that, time and time again and no matter how much you blinked or kept your eyes shut Haven did not right itself into corner stores and busy intersections. It’s no different this time but the need for the gesture is still there. At the moment, it serves as a pause. A moment for you to gather your thoughts – rather, what’s left of them – before you do something you will regret.

 

_It’s late. The guards will not stop you. They have no reason to. Yet._

 

No. Running is not an option. Running will draw unnecessary attention, it will make you look guilty long before the cause of your disappearance will be discovered. It will not help your standing were you to be caught. You have no need for running no matter how much your hands shake or how uneven your breathing is.

 

_Ten steps to the door, ten steps to the fireplace, ten steps to the-_

 

Focus.

 

You raise your head and take in your surroundings, as if looking upon your lodgings for the first time. The bare essentials are laid out before you: chairs, a desk, a bed and a table along with the chamber pot shoved in the furthest corner of the room.

 

A forged mage. The term seems fitting. _As false as the promises you made to the heads of the Inquisition._ Help those who cannot help themselves. Bring order. Close the Breach. _Survive._

 

 **No.** Don’t think. It’s not certain whether the Mark will succeed. It’s **building** , it’s not yet complete, you still have a chance-

 

The memory of you sitting around a campfire rises to the surface of your thoughts. Fire bleeds from your unmarked hand scorching the earth beneath you _and you don’t even notice, what will happen next time? Are you certain you wish to tempt your fate?_

 

As if sensing your attention, the Mark comes alive for the second time today, tendrils of green writhing along your hand. You narrow your eyes at it, fear momentarily dampened by anger. It unfurls slowly, like a blanket that clouds your mind but does nothing to quiet down the contradiction in your thoughts. You think you see your breath fogging the air in front of you but you are too focused on the Mark to check.

 

“This is your fault.” You whisper, voice low and steady and devoid of emotion, speaking as much to the Mark as the thing that put it there. The ice in your mind grows into spikes, devouring your thoughts and making your head pound.

 

_This is not real. It was never real, it’s all in your head-_

 

The lump in your throat grows larger. It feels like claws gripping at your throat, cutting off your air supply. Pressure builds in the back of your head and you feel oddly full, as if there’s too much of you in one place. The Mark pulses once more, a shower of sparks and green energy releasing from the center of your hand that serves as a distraction from the onslaught of thoughts. You **hate** the fact that it responds to your emotions, that it’s even there to begin with.

 

The Mark wants a mage? **You will give it a mage.**

 

The ice in your mind recedes ever so slowly, as if unwilling to be replaced by the growing fury. The claws gripping your throat seem to weaken ever so faintly so in response you conjure up the image of white-hot flames. Of pain, sharp and blinding and of shadows dancing on walls.

 

It comes to you, a steady rise in the temperature of your hand before the green flames are swallowed by red. And it’s meant to hurt.

 

You think of it as your flesh turns pink and begins to blister, bubbling as it smokes and darkens in colour. You bite your lip so hard you taste iron and finally, _finally_ your mind is silent. When you feel like screaming from the pain – then and only then – you release the anger and the flames fade with it, leaving behind a scorched mass that smells like cooked meat and spits green.

 

There are healing potions in your travel pack. You search for them, one hand fumbling to open and unlatch while the other hangs useless at your side. You down half of the healing potion, its taste drowned out by the usual sting – like drinking cold sparkling water too fast – and watch what remains of the skin dry and flake and the pain pound in time with your heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the underweight frame and large eyes of an elf servant stabs at your eyes and you gather from stuttered apologies about disturbing your sleep that the heads of the Inquisition request your presence in the Chantry. You wave her away with a grimace and down the remaining half of the healing potion before donning the usual leathers and furs meant to protect against the cold of the Frostbacks.

 

Your hand remains an angry pink and you cannot touch anything without a bolt of pain shooting up your arm but nevertheless you shove your hand into the leather gloves provided to you and try not to flinch too much. It stings but it keeps you grounded (you think it helps keep the whispers at bay but such a thought would prove the rapidly deteriorating state of your sanity so you brush it away as soon as you think it). The warmth of magic-infused herbs persists as you make your way across Haven and pass through the open doors of the Chantry.

 

“We have received news of potential assets to the Inquisition.” Leliana begins as soon as you open the door to the War Room. Beside her sits Cassandra which greets you with a nod and you close the door behind you, joining the four around the map of Thedas spread over what seems to be two joined tables.

 

“Three of them can be found in the Hinterlands. With their help the Inquisition will gain recognition faster.” You nod.

 

“Who are they?”

 

“The First is Enchanter Ellandra. She has yet to pick a side in the Mage-Templar war.” Begins Josephine, handing you a blood smeared letter and what seems to be a small vial of thick red liquid. “She belonged to the College of Aequitarians, which promoted the view that mages must use their abilities responsibly and ethically regardless of Chantry law.” She gestures with the end of her quill at the items. “You might find that useful when trying to gain her favour.” You nod, placing the items back on the table.

 

A missive is placed next to the vial and Cullen straightens up, hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Corporal Vale.” The name sounds vaguely familiar. “Most of the refugees at the Crossroads have expressed their gratitude to the Inquisition. Corporal Vale and his troops have encouraged them to join our ranks. The supply carts accompanying you on the journey will help strengthen that desire.”

 

“And the last one?”

 

“I understand your attempts to enter Redcliffe Village have been turned away but if such a thing were to change, my agents have discovered that a woman by the name of Tanner is posing under the guise of a Chantry sister to cover up her smuggling background. “ You cannot help but raise your eyebrows at Leliana’s smile. “She may be useful in the future.” Is her response.

 

The rest of the meeting is spent with Cullen and Leliana arguing about recruiting the Mages or Templars while Josephine reasons that neither are a viable option until the meeting in Val Royeaux. You are in the middle of studying the Western Approach when a stray comment reaches your ears.

 

“Soldiers have gone missing?” Your eyes meet Cullen’s with an intensity that surprises even you. Cullen’s statement trails off, as if taken aback at your sudden interest.

 

“I… yes. The region is largely uncharted and finding them will prove difficult but we need every man available to us so losing them is not an option.”

 

“I’ll go.”

 

“Herald, your journey to the Hinterlands will not be delayed. The forces have already-“

 

You place your hands on the table, ignore the shot of pain that almost cramps your muscles and lean forward, brain sorting through the possibilities. Time’s ticking and you must prove yourself invaluable. If saving a dozen soldiers from a bog helps the Herald’s standing then you might as well.

 

Leliana hums. “It might go a long way into securing our forces' loyalty. The Herald of Andraste herself, marching through a bog to save her soldiers.” The smirk she gives you is calculated, eyes sweeping over your form. “Smart.”

 

“I will find the Warden and the agents. We can look for the soldiers after our business in the Hinterlands is finished. Will that give you enough time to narrow down their location?”

 

Cullen sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have had soldiers volunteering to search for their lost comrades all week. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“I will also send scouts to map the area. A missive will be sent to the Inquisition camps if we find anything.” Josephine straightens up, meeting your eyes with a soft smile.

 

“Let us hope the Chantry will respond to my letters by the time you return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to those who can figure out (despite my shitty writing) that the whispers are a demon eyyyyy. She hates the Mark but it kinda low-key saved her from being possessed. This time? /shrug
> 
> I have been so obsessed with Critical Role and the thought of DMing my own campaign that I have completely neglected this story. I had plans for this chapter but I made the smart move of not writing any of it down thinking I would remember it and now here we are.
> 
> I've been standing on this incomplete thing for a month. Something's not right with it and I, for the life of me, cannot figure out what. I've spent too much time staring at this chapter so if you spot any mistakes please let me know :3
> 
> I have so many awesome things planned for this story but man, getting there is like trying to leave the Hinterlands all over again.


	8. Chapter 8

As the meeting comes to an end you are left staring at the backs of the two people walking a little ahead of you, teeth worrying at your lower lip in an unconscious display of hesitation. You have had plenty of time to ponder your request – ever since the blacksmith thrust the daggers in your hands – but the thought of confronting Cullen or Leliana about it makes your stomach plummet.

 

From what you have seen of this world a majority of the populace has had some measure of combat training. Some more than others – certainly more than you. The most you have ever done in battle was thrust your blades blindly at your opponent while waiting for the opportune time to flee. You don’t feel embarrassed admitting your shortcomings regarding fighting prowess but you do feel… to put it simply, useless.

 

You haven’t had the time to raise this question before, with you running around the wilderness, soothing country folk and stitching together the fabric of this world but asking for a different weapon is not as easy as you would have hoped because it implies _talking_ with either the woman who woke you up in a dungeon and watched you cry and scream your lack of knowledge to the heavens or the man who was once part of an order whose goal is _hunting down mages_. What if he can tell you’re one of _them_?

 

Alas, your determination not to find your end at the tip of a blade thanks to your incompetence is stronger than your reservations regarding your – current – allies. So after you exchange polite goodbyes with the Ambassador, you shadow the Spymaster’s steps back to her office and wait rather awkwardly in your opinion, for the ever growing line of messengers and scouts to finish their reports. The woman does not acknowledge your presence, scanning various letters thrust into her hands and talking in hushed tones with each person arriving at her door.

 

Finally, when the line of people seems to break and your fidgeting grows to uncomfortable levels her voice raises above the steady croon of her ravens. “What’s this about, Herald?”

 

You immediately feel compelled to straighten from your slouch despite the fact that her eyes have not left the length of parchment held in one of her hands.

 

“I came to request combat training. Perhaps even a change of weapons.” Your words seem to give her pause for she raises her head to pin you down with an assessing gaze as she leans back in her chair, crossing her legs.

 

“I believe Commander Cullen would be more suited to fulfilling your request.”

 

“He is.” It seems like minutes before the woman in front of you moves and even then it’s slow and makes you think of her movements as robotic – but as soon as you think that you hurry to correct your thoughts: not robotic, deliberate. As if every twitch of her muscles serves a bigger purpose than it should.  She places the parchment on the table, leaning forward in her seat and you watch how a stray lock of reddish hair escapes the confines of her hood, dangling in front of her eyes.

 

“Do you believe your companions unable to protect you in battle?”

 

“I… what? No.” As a matter of fact the thought hasn’t even occurred to you. On the contrary, out of all the Inquisition soldiers, you believe Cassandra, Solas and Varric to be the most capable fighters though your point of view may be heavily biased.

 

“I am aware that the skills of someone with your upbringing are not suitable for such an environment and would we have had the time and the men required for such a thing we wouldn’t have sent you to the Hinterlands unprepared. But given the current state of affairs and the lack of information we possess over who or what caused the explosion at the conclave, we… _you_ cannot afford to remain in Haven and train.” You open your mouth to suggest that one of your companions _might_ start teaching you along the road but she puts up her palm and you find the words getting stuck in your throat. The slight wrinkle between her brows makes you feels like a misbehaving child and you own brows furrow because you _know_ you did nothing wrong but the sentiment seems adamant in its presence.

 

“That being said, I understand your concern. Accounts of your skill in battle have been… lacking. I will have your party members submit their own reports and based on that a more suitable weapon should be assigned to you. Is that all?”

 

All you can do is nod silently. Her mouth curves up into something that resembles more of a grimace than a smile – which, given your previous observations, seems to be deliberate but lacks a certain sharpness that makes you believe it might not be aimed at you – and she returns her attention to the letter on her desk.

 

“Safe travels, Herald.”

 

* * *

 

Your remaining hours in Haven are split between riding lessons and reading. You find a couple more history books that have been blessedly spared of the biased views of Andrastianism and you nest on top of your blankets, devouring the words and committing their events to memory as best you can.

 

You wake up early the day of your departure, – early for you, later than usual for everyone else – hand your travel pack to one of the stablehands to strap it on your horse and begin your journey back into the Hinterlands.

 

Days pass. The aches from your first time riding begin to ache again. Varric tells amusing stories of his youth as a rogue and you have postponed your meetings with Solas regarding magic for fear of being prematurely discovered. He seems to understand your fears, which, instead of soothing your worries makes your paranoia grow.

 

The caravan arrives safely to the Crossroads and Corporal Vale thanks you and the Inquisition for the help offered. He promises that his men and the volunteering refugees will be on their way to Haven shortly.

 

You give Enchanter Ellandra her phylactery and the Templar’s letter. She tries to hide the wetness of her eyes and her furrowed brows but you speak before she has the chance to gather herself. She does not want to be a part of the war but that’s not what you’re asking. A skilled mage is not just a weapon, you say, the words feeling heavy in your mouth. _Use your talents for study. Help the wounded. Guide the mages in the Inquisition._ In the end, she promises her skills to the Inquisition and leaves to join the volunteers at the Crossroads.

 

The Warden is alone and Cassandra’s questions remain largely unanswered. He knows nothing of the other members of his order but he wishes to join the Inquisition’s cause. Cassandra hesitates but as her eyes sweep your form once again she closes her eyes and releases a bone deep sigh that sounds almost defeated and tells him to pack for immediate travel. There is nothing more to be done now so you check with the nearest Inquisition camp and retrieve the letter with the location of the soldiers that are being held hostage by Avvar who demand to meet the Herald of Andraste in exchange for the soldiers' lives.

 

The Fallow Mire, the bog is called and for some unknown reason the words sound ominous. 

 

Along with the location is a map and a letter describing the history of The Fallow Mire which does not help lift your spirits. Regardless, the next day you and your now-five-man party climb on your horses and proceed to venture south of the Hinterlands.

 

The longer you travel the more the weather seems to shift from the hot sun beating down your necks into occasional rain and clouded skies. By the time you reach the forward camp inside the bog the grey clouds have completely swallowed the light leaving the land in a perpetual stormy darkness worthy of a horror movie.

 

Scout Harding, the same dwarf who greeted you the first time you arrived in the Hinterlands is here as well and the two of you share a moment of grief over the current location before she informs your party of everything she knows about the area. Some villagers have tried to build a life in the Mire but their lives have been under constant attack by a mysterious illness and the undead rising from the murky waters that cover most of the region.

 

"I don't like it. Some of our forces have caught the fevers a few days ago and what little supplies we have don't seem to make much of a difference." Harding comments, shaking her head and looking back at some of the tents in the camp. The comment is almost casual and you gather that soldiers may be prone to sickness in unknown lands but the atmosphere of the place makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

 

"Scout Harding, are we currently traipsing through a plague infested land?" You ask, shivering and drenched and unable to keep the incredulity from your voice.

 

"Well yeah, but I thought the undead would be a more pressing concern."

 

"Oh, Herald, you always take me to the nicest places." Varric says and it's a wonder how his humour can withstand even the most ominous places.

 

"I would rather not be chased around by a corpse if I can help it, yes."

 

"Fast little fuckers, aren't they." A man that dons the same uniform as Harding grumbles, huddling in front of the fire. "You'd think the water will slow them down. Just be careful with the lurkers; they tend to squirt." The rest of his comments are drowned out by Harding's outrage at speaking so freely in front of the Herald. When she is satisfied the man looks properly apologetic for his language she turns to you with a solemn look and you are surprised to feel the ghost of a smile fading from your expression.

 

"He's right about one thing. Disturbing the water draws them out." And with that you and your party proceed to trudge through the mud towards the other side of the bog.

 

The trees of the swamp seem to tower over you, their thin leafless branches curling towards the ground as if eager to capture any sign of life. And the _smell_. Corruption and decay hangs thick in the air, blanketing your senses with a smell that turns your breathing shallow and feels like it saps the strength from your very bones.

 

Progress is slow. The Fallow Mire is, in short, nightmare fuel. You have yet to see a walking corpse but the place has been filled with the occasional hiss and distant haunting moan cutting through the rain.

 

"The Veil is thin here. Demons are seeping into every corpse and tree they can." Solas murmurs, when you glimpse the green glow of a fade rift on the horizon. Its presence does not go unnoticed by the Mark, coming alive with a crack and a flash of light that pierces through the thick leather of your gloves.

 

"You're not very cheery, are you?" The new addition to your party grumbles followed by Varric's answering chuckle.

 

"Quiet, both of you. Demons ahead." Cassandra throws over her shoulders and the four keep low to the ground, slinking through mud and being careful in avoiding the water.

 

The rift turns out to be temporarily shut, beside it waiting a mountain of a main with a metal lion's head mounted on a weapon that could probably rival you in height if placed on the ground. The man keeps it resting on one shoulder with no apparent signs of discomfort. It's almost impressive.

 

"The Herald of Andraste? You've nothing to fear from me, lowlander. My kin may want you dead but I want no part in it." He calls out to your party, voice thick with an accent you have never heard before. Cassandra is tense beside you, her eyes jumping between the man and the rift as if waiting for it to spring open and have a horde of demons and an Avvar goliath descend upon your party.

 

"How convenient." She spits.

 

"I thought the Avvar wanted to fight me?"

 

"Our chieftain's son wants to fight you. Rites to the Gods, mending for the bleeding, that's what I do. I don't pick up a blade for a whelp's trophy hunt. Looking for your soldiers, are you? Last I saw them, they were alive. Someone's trained them well. Killed more of us that I thought they would." You nod, gesturing with your chin at the ghostly green tear floating in the air.

 

"Are you guarding this rift?"

 

The helmet covering most of his face moves towards the rift but you don't have to look at his face to recognize the awe and worry that coats his words. "Never seen anything like it. It spits out angry spirits, endless."

 

"I could close it. Will you allow me?"

 

"Mend the Lady of the Skies? You don't need _my_ permission, lowlander." 

 

You step forward and raise your hand towards the rift. It's one of the easiest ones yet; the demons have already been defeated and the rift, drained of energy, closed to nothing more than a crack. You raise your hand to the rift and watch the Mark extend its barely-there tendrils of energy, break it into pieces and draw them back into the Mark. It numbs your hand and the only feeling you can associate it to is the tiny jolt of electrical energy that shoots up your arm when touching a stray cable.

 

The man presents himself as Sky Watcher and he points you in the right direction of your soldiers with a warning of 'Don't touch the water.' upon departure. He speaks of joining the Inquisition so you let him but he will not join you in fighting the other Avvar, instead heading back to one of the Inquisition camps. Cassandra complains at the new addition but you reason that one look at that man is enough to make a lesser enemy flee in fear.

 

* * *

 

Your first sighting of a walking corpse is every bit the nightmare you expected it to be.

 

The body is skeletal and pieces of its muscles have fallen off, exposing the bone underneath. The skin is drawn tight against the cranium, accentuating its remaining teeth and the fact that you know that their eyes have glazed over with a white film and that they look close to bursting is information enough as to how close the corpse got to you. Blackwall rushes between you and the corpse driving his sword forward and in that moment you understand the scout's warning about squirting.

 

"We will want to launder our clothes later. Or burn them." Solas remarks drily, tugging at a part of his tunic that was splattered with blood and dark brown water. You don't fare any better and the more you think back on the corpse and the squelching sound it made when Blackwall thrust his sword into it, the more you want to crawl into a bush and empty your stomach's contents.

 

You promise yourself, as the walls of Hargrave Keep and the horde of undead awaiting at its gates comes into sight, that you will never step foot in this place or anything like it again. Not for the Inquisition and certainly not for its soldiers.

 

* * *

 

"Herald of Andraste! Face me! I am the hand of Korth himself!" The half-giant at the top of the stairs roars holding his weapon high in the air. Around the room several other Avvars similar in height cheer him on.

 

The thought of fighting this hand of Korth does not agree with you - or your pulse. But luck is on your side - if it can even be called luck, at this point - and the occupants of the room rush towards your party, various weapons already drawn. It seems he cares little for a duel, of which you are both grateful and terrified. The lack of a duel means you will survive for more than three measly seconds, but also that you will live long enough to see his horde of giants descend upon you and your companions.

 

There is a second in which you cannot move and by the time you muster enough energy to step back, Cassandra and Blackwall are already in front of you, engaging four of them while Solas and Varric rain bolts of steel and fire into the direction of the hand of Korth.

 

The fight lasts longer than the previous ones but ends faster than you can gather your bearings. Whimpers and shushed voices come from a side door and with Varric's help the door swings open to reveal the missing soldiers.

 

"Herald of Andraste!" Some of them clutch their sides while others help their comrades walk. You step away from the door and let them pass.

 

"Is everyone all right?"

 

"Yes, your worship. The injured need some rest but we can return on our own."

 

"I can't believe the Herald came for us."

 

"I told you she wouldn't leave us." You nod and try to smile but you're certain it comes off as more of a grimace than anything else. It's not aimed at them, rather at the faith in their voice. They shouldn't be thanking you for it, they should be thanking the members of your party who actually know their way around a battlefield.

 

But you have completed your mission and the wide eyed stares of the soldiers are a testament to your success, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super early chapter because I wanted to leave the Fallow Mire as fast as I could. Aww, look the Inquisitor, slowly gaining her sense of humour.
> 
> I tried making the Fallow Mire dark and ominous but it came out more as a dark comedy chapter, i have no idea why. Perhaps environmental horror and I don't mix too well.
> 
> On another note, I just realized I never shared my tumblr. Come visit me at [Obviously Sketchy](http://obviouslysketchy.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

“Josie, a moment?” The door to her office opens and Josephine looks up from her letter to smile at the new arrival.

 

“Of course, Leliana. Come in.” The quill she holds is carefully scraped against top of the ink pot before being placed in its holder. Josephine sets the parchment aside for the ink to dry while she clasps her hands together and leans forward in her seat. “What can I help you with?” Leliana crosses her arms and leans against the closed door.

 

 _Ah._ Business, then.

 

“Have you discovered anything of the Herald’s lineage?” Josephine cannot help the sigh that escapes her lips.

 

“Unfortunately, no. According to Seeker Cassandra, she has made no reference to her hometown – or any town. Master Tethras has tried to place her accent but he was unable to discern the region it hails from.”

 

“And you?”

 

“Based on her build and complexion I am inclined to say Orlesian.”

 

“Perhaps. She lack the accent. And the posture.”

 

“And no one has claimed blood ties to the Herald of Andraste either. That is… worrying.” If the Herald was born an Orlesian and became a disgraced member of her house, Josephine knows that trying to find any information on her noble life would be next to impossible.

 

“There is the possibility of exile.” Josephine begins slowly.

 

Leliana hums. “Could be. Her house would not acknowledge that and neither would she for fear of the consequences.” In the lack of proper lighting Josephine can see Leliana’s features darken. It brings a shiver down her spite despite knowing that the woman before her is a friend. “What about her name?”

 

“It belongs to no noble family that my contacts and I know of but in order to distance herself from the rest of her family, she would have donned a different identity.”

 

Leliana nods and steps away from the door. “I’ll have my spies look into any exiled nobles that match her description.”

 

Josephine frowns. “Is that necessary?”

 

The Ambassador sees Leliana pause, her head slowly turning back to lock eyes with her once again. “She’s part of the Inquisition now, Josie.” Leliana says and perhaps to her that is reason enough but

Josephine cannot help the small pit of unease growing in her chest.

 

“You’ve read the field reports. Whatever her offense, exposing it to the world would make her distance herself from us.”

 

There are a few moments in which the silence following her statement becomes oppressive, weighing on her shoulders like boulders strapped to her back but at last, Leliana nods.

 

“We’ll discuss that when the need arises.”

 

* * *

 

You ride back to Haven with the missing soldiers and the scouts deployed by Leliana. Everyone in your party is eager to leave the bog and its eerie atmosphere.

 

The scouts that have fallen ill show no sign of improvement so on the third day of travel when the party is forced to halt their moment in order to attend to a soldier choking on his own blood, you sit down next to the man in question after the rest of the troops have stopped fussing over him and shove one of your healing potions into his cold hands, ignoring his protests. You did not march through hordes of undead and swamp demons for a group of people that will drop dead on the way back.

 

The remaining four vials in your travel pack are handed off to scout Harding to spread among the ill. Hopefully it will alleviate the symptoms until you reach Haven.

 

And it does but arriving takes longer than you expected; it’s dusk by the time you climb down from your horse and as much as you’d like to walk directly to your cabin and soak several weeks’ worth of filth and substances you’d rather not think about away, you have to report to the Inquisition.

 

“You have arrived! Good. The clerics have answered.” Josephine greets you and Cassandra as soon as you enter the Chantry, the wide smile slipping from her expression as soon as she takes in your appearance.

 

“Good news?” Cassandra asks, probably as eager as you to reach the nearest bathtub.

 

“Ah… news. The grand clerics will agree to a hearing only if the Herald intends to denounce her heretical claim and have the Inquisition disbanded.” Cassandra huffs.

 

 “Are they mad? The Inquisition is the only thing keeping the people safe!” Josephine clicks her tongue and ushers you into the war room where Leliana and Cullen sit seemingly deep in conversation.

 

“We have no power, Cassandra, which is why we must address the clerics. Heretical claim or not, this is an opportunity we cannot ignore; having the Herald attend the meeting is not a terrible idea.”

 

“And we should ignore the danger to the Herald?” Leliana asks.

 

“Worst case scenario is they decide to execute me for defying the Chantry.” You sigh, collapsing into one of the chairs placed around the table. From the corner of your eye you spy Leliana taking one step back from you and the persisting aura of stench. “If I am to go to this hearing and come back with my life I will need protection.”

 

Cassandra sighs, gripping the back of your chair. “If there is nothing else to be done, I will go with you.”

 

“Seeker, three people cannot stand against a religious order, no matter how poetic it might sound. What about guards?”

 

“We cannot be seen marching our forces into the capital but the soldiers you have saved will be more than happy to provide their savior’s protection.” Cullen adds and you see Cassandra shaking her head above you.

 

“The soldiers she has saved can barely stand let alone wield a sword.”

 

Josephine steps forward. “Making the necessary preparations for your journey will take time. I believe they will be nursed back to health by the time we are finished.”

 

“Please do? I’d hate to have survived a nuclear explosion only to end as a blood smear on the capital’s steps.” There’s a pause following your statement, their eyes fixed on you. You think it might be the sorry state of your hygiene so you stand up from your seat, joints popping. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I hear several baths calling my name.”

 

* * *

 

Val Royeaux is every bit the Orlesian jewel you expect it to be. Paved streets and alleyways slither around buildings several stories high and fragments of song occasionally reach your ears. Shade is provided by giant strips of bright red cloth that connect through spires all around the city. It’s as clean as a medieval city can get and does not smell like a latrine, which you consider a blessing. There is a notable trend among the people of Orlais which is both admirable and, to someone who has grown up on intrigue novels and fantasy settings, rather ridiculous. Bejeweled masks catch the sun and reflect it back with intensity. Some are simple, barely hiding one’s features. Others hide the entirety of one’s face. It’s fascinating. The ghost of a smile that has been unwilling to leave your lips ever since arriving at the gates of Val Royeaux however, falters at the people’s welcome.

 

Some stare. Some gasp. Some scurry out of your way as if they’ve seen a dragon. There is badly concealed mistrust and hate in every pair of eyes fixed on you and your companions _. ‘Return to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed.’_ Cassandra had instructed the scout and the words seemed unimportant at the time.

 

Now you know better. It’s like walking through a pit of snakes – and at least one of your companions secretly believes you might not return. Were you not publicly invited here by the Chantry, they would have torn you apart.

 

“Just a guess Seeker but I think they all know who we are.”

 

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.”

 

Lodging has been arranged for your party at a small inn in the Summer Bazaar and you spend the night staring outside tinted glass into a city that teems with life and reminds you of your old home. The morning of your audience you don the clothes provided by Josephine – a fine set of robes whose edges glitter in the sunlight. You doubt it would be much protection against a hidden blade but the Ambassador has been very explicit in her request: No armor is to be worn at the audience lest the Chantry officials take it as a slight against their order.

 

A mob is gathered in the middle of the Summer Bazaar, their faces upturned at the chantry woman atop the wooden platform. She speaks of the Maker and its blessing, of the joy found in ascending to the Heavens and how all of that will be taken away from those who side with the Inquisition. Your party pushes forward and Cassandra yells, pleads for an audience but the woman continues her speech and points to the entrance of the bazaar where a dozen men wearing the flaming sword of the Templar order stand.

 

The woman’s words makes your heart stutter and ice form in your veins. They’re here to protect the people from the Inquisition, she says and you know what it means. There was never a hearing, never a chance to denounce anything. Just a ploy to have you within their reach, where they can cut you down in the middle of the market and call it justice.

 

“We need to leave. _Now_.” You whisper to Cassandra and start to make your way out of the crowd but you don’t get very far before the man leading the Templars climbs the platform steps and strikes the chantry woman across the face.

 

Gasps echo around you but aren’t loud enough to drown the man’s words. Val Royeaux is not worthy of the Templar’s protection. Cassandra knows this man and as she yells his name – Lord Seeker Lambert – he rounds up on her with the fury of a disappointed father.

 

The Templars leave Val Royeaux and soon after you are accosted by an elven woman with the title of Grand Enchanter. She proposes an alliance between her mages and the Inquisition while Cassandra spits accusations on behalf of the dead. The woman does not flinch away from the words but pauses when she meets your eyes.

 

“Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe.”

 

* * *

 

 You spend three and a half weeks in Orlais, none of them planned.

 

In the first week you are invited to a salon held by the Enchanter to the Imperial Court and soon after you receive a letter from Haven that politely orders you to attend said soiree but before leaving Val Royeaux you must first confront the growing problem of Red Jenny – an unknown person with a tendency to fire arrows with messages everywhere you go. You ignore them until one morning an arrow grazes your cheek and sinks into the wooden floor of the inn.

 

Said person turns out to be an elf that is not impressed by your race or the mark on your hand – not that you have ever tried to impress anyone with it – and could not honestly care less about the life she took in her attempt at showmanship. She lead you into an ambush and brushed aside your anger when confronted. The ice returns, faint prickling in the back of your head.

 

“I’m not Knifey Shivdark, all hidden. But if you don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches. Look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. _Like you_.” She says, which almost makes you smile.

 

Your refusal seems to surprise and annoy the elf in equal measure and you’re left with vague threats and the body of a dead noble.

 

At the end of the first week you are given a one day leave to the shops dotted around the bazaar, your companions shadowing your every step. You enter countless shops, from small corner-stores and apothecaries to multiple storied establishments selling the finest masks and garments.

 

And yet none of them spark your interest. Were you someone else, the allure of a golden mask would be difficult to ignore but each time your eyes fall on something that you consider purchasing you find yourself asking the same questions:

 

_Do I have a use for it? Will it help me fight? Will it help me survive?_

 

None of them pass your questions.

 

Except one.

 

It’s midday when you find it, on the upper level of the bazaar and as you open the door the smell of dusty parchment makes your throat itch. It’s tempting, reaching for a history or a geography book and having your questions answered but life in Thedas has made your paranoia skyrocket.

 

So you pass the books speaking about far off lands. You pass the books detailing previous battles in Orlais – and even in Ferelden – and you pass the compendium of dangerous beasts – although your steps falter ever so slightly. But then there it is. Small and tucked between two phytotherapy books that you also pluck from the shelf, unable to help yourself.

 

There is no immediate use for it. It won’t help you fight or even survive better than you already did until now. _But it will help you kill._

 

When you exit the store and rejoin your companions and guards Varric takes one look at the books clutched into your arms and snorts.

 

“ _Botanical Compendium_? Didn’t take you for a harvester.” You force a smile his way and glance at the topmost tome, eyes tracing the worn, barely legible letters. _Elements of Murder: A Study of Potions, Poisons and their Roots._

 

The second week finds you on the road to Ghislain and the third week begins with the salon.

 

You have no mask for you do not belong to Orlais and to buy any mask from the vendors in the Summer Bazaar would have made you stand out even more. No doubt they would have seen it as a poor attempt to blend into their society and customs. Like a tourist who buys cheap souvenirs and shows off to the locals – amusing because you tried, pathetic for even thinking about it.

 

Elaborate dresses and coats flutter about in the Ghislain estate and yet again some stare, some gasp. Few are brave enough to address you directly but those who do walk away with straighter postures and an unmistakable sense of accomplishment; no doubt superiority for having dared talked with the Herald of Andraste when so few preferred to ignore your existence entirely.

 

Two hours pass in which nobles throw carefully concealed insults your way. One even challenges you to a duel but is suspiciously stopped at just the right moment by a woman who makes the surface of your skin tingle. There’s no mistaking her magical prowess nor her social status. _Madame de Fer_ smiles as she offers you your challenger’s life.

 

You are tempted. The words are already formed into your mind and your lips twitch as if already speaking them. It would be simple, to watch the man freeze then break in chunks of ice and flesh.

 

“He does not interest me. Do what you will with him.” You speak, almost forcing the words out.

 

No. Your quarrel is not with him. Not yet.

 

She leads you away then, up the stairs and into a lounge where servants bring you tea and sweets as soon as you sit down. You accept and pretend you don’t know their lady’s motives for inviting you here.

 

“As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

 

“So you’re in favor of returning the mages to the Circles then?”

 

“We need an institution to protect and nurture magic. Makes knows, magic will find neither on its own.” You think back at the fire scorching your skin and the shards of ice clawing up your throat courtesy of an apostate near Redcliffe. You smile at The Iron Lady, a slow curl of your lips that is more for her benefit than yours.

 

“The Inquisition will be grateful for your assistance, Lady Vivienne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistake #2. Oh no, she's slipping.
> 
> I feel I should apologize for not making the Herald accept Sera into the Inquisition but I feel I must also stress that this is not in-game where you collect the companions because 'you gotta catch them all'. I love Sera and even though I felt bad planning this, it had to be done for the sake of staying true to this version of the Herald.


	10. Chapter 10

There's a book on the edge of your desk. You don't remember removing it from your bookshelf. The cover is coarse and leaves your fingers dusty from the touch.

 

One of your favorites, it was. _Was?_  Is. You must have read it over a dozen times - always hoping the ending would be different. It's not and the tragedy of it leaves you hollow and lonely and unable to read anything else no matter how much you focus. Your sister has a different opinion of course but then again your tastes are as similar as night and day. She enjoys novels about misunderstood teens that can change a monster's nature with their love, while you...

 

You lift the book and walk over to the shelves near your bed. What time is it, almost noon? You should probably go downstairs and help with lunch - there was that recipe you found online that your father is excited to try; better make sure he doesn't lose another finger in the process.

 

As you turn away to open the door to your bedroom you catch a flash of movement from the corner of your eye. The mirror facing your bed ripples and the you reflected in its surface walks forward a step. Another. You see green eyes but that not right, your eyes are not green nor are your fingers that elongated-

 

The mirror grows, plastic edges giving way to dark branches until it towers over your entire room and you sit there watching this whole process, unable to move. Your heart thunders in your chest, close to bursting and your stomach plummets until it feels like you are free falling and you have to grab the edge of your bed and sit down to make sure you don't actually fall. In the mirror, your clothes are replaced by counterparts made of flimsy material and animal leather crudely sown together. Your face grows darker, your skin stretching even tighter against bone and muscles.

 

The person in the mirror is unrecognizable. This is not you. Is it?

 

_This is not your home_. The force of the thought pushes against your shoulders and causes you to sink even deeper into your seat. You're not home, you're in a nightmare fighting nightmares, of course. You remember now.

 

The demon - for it cannot be anything else- smiles. It always smiles, small and crooked and you do not know what emotion that smile is supposed to represent because to you it looks terrifying. It raises its right hand and you can now see the black fingers extending into claws.

 

_Knock. Knock. Knock._ The tip of its claw makes no sound against the mirror but the action is unmistakable. Your throat burns and you feel lightheaded - the breath you've been holding comes out with a rush, loud in the silence of the room.

 

The demon waits, its hand splayed on the other side of the mirror.

 

You feel no Pride when looking at it. The lack of fire means its not Rage. It mirrors you almost entirely which means its not Terror. It has shown you nothing you covet and that rules out Desire. Sloth would not go to such lengths, which leaves only Fear.

 

You stand up from your spot on unsteady feet and walk until the mirror is directly in front of you. The demon repeats its actions with deliberate slowness: three knocks with the tip of a claw before placing its right hand on the mirror. In your hand, the anchor sparks. Fear makes your knees lock and your left hand to move as if through water. Moving it feels like the hardest thing you've ever done.

 

The mirror's surface is cold against your palm and the demon's claws are twice the size of your fingers. "What do you want from me?" You ask. Again. Always. It won't answer. It never does.

 

But it does move. Its fingers spread farther apart and the parts of the mirror where its claws press in push outwards, breaking. Once more your breath remains stuck in your throat as you watch five clawed fingers illuminated by green encase your left hand.

 

* * *

 

 "Okay, so that did not go too well. Pros and cons?"

 

"Well? The Chantry lied! They would have killed us!"

 

"I know, Seeker, I was there. Perhaps next time I'll wear _heels_."

 

"It is unfortunate but now we know how we can go about addressing the templars." 

 

"Do we? Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember."

 

You sigh, leaning back in your seat and watching the people gathered inside the war room with guarded eyes.

 

"My reports have been odd. He has taken the Order somewhere, but to do what?"

 

"We must look into it. I'm certain not everyone in the order will support the Lord Seeker."

 

"Or, the Herald could simply go and meet the mages in Redcliffe instead." Josephine suggests but she is quickly silenced by Cullen, who whirls around faster than you can blink. He seems... odd. In all the time you have spent here, you have never seen him so - energetic? No, the word is not entirely right. Chaotic energy seems to buzz around him; he can barely sit still for the meeting. Is it because of the Templars? You sit straighter in your seat.

 

"You think the mage rebellion is more united? it could be ten times worse!"

 

The fact that he's trying to overtly steer the Inquisition towards the Order that wanted you dead but a few days ago makes you teeth grind together. "I disagree. The Order tried to have me killed; so far the only thing the mages have done is extend an invitation."

 

"They may be more desperate than you realize. If some among the rebel mages were responsible for what happened at the Conclave..."

 

You frown. "The same could be said about the Templars."

 

Cassandra nods. "True enough. Right now, I'm not certain we have enough influence to approach the order safely."

 

"So... what do we do now?"

 

"Leliana and I will try to contact some of Orlais' most influential houses. With their help we might be able to pressure the Templars to come to our aid in sealing the Breach."

 

Leliana steps forward. "That will take time but we should have everything in place by the time you return."

 

"From Redcliffe?"

 

"From the Storm Coast. We have received a most curious offer by a mercenary company called The Bull's Chargers."

 

* * *

 

 Later that day, as the sky turns from blue to orange, the Spymaster arrives at your doorstep while you're in the middle of removing your armor and changing into the warmer clothes provided. You open the door for her and resume your previous action as soon as it closes behind her.

 

"You have returned with the Warden and the soldiers." She begins, leaning against your desk. 

 

"News of your bravery are spreading on the battlements as we speak. I suppose congratulations are in order." Her voice is soft, no louder than the crackle of burning logs coming from the fireplace. Her accent is soothing. You reach your hand back to untie the leather straps holding your armor together but your muscles are sore and you can't quite stretch to your fullest yet. Another groan and you feel fingers tugging at the straps. It's surprising but you welcome the help.

 

"They were good men."

 

"Is that why you saved them? Because you hold the Inquisition's soldiers in such high regards?" The hard leather slips off your frame and you exhale in relief. You take a few seconds to contemplate your answer - flattery? Fake proclamations about believing in the Inquisition's cause?

 

You know better than to think you can fool this woman with pleasantries. "I did it because it was expected of me."

 

With the jacket off, the woman returns to her previous position. Her head lowers slightly as she speaks. You know this look but you had yet to see it in real life - until now. Felines stalking their prey.

 

"These people expect a great many things. The whole of Ferelden and Orlais does. Do you intend to fulfill their every whim?" You shrug off the undershirt and adjust the chest bindings.

 

"Do you intend to make me fulfill their every whim?"

 

"Within reason."

 

" _Ah._ Of course. Would not want the Inquisition to be looked upon as a glorified errand service." Your booted feet thud gently on the floor as you cross the room to gather your clothes. Her eyes burn on the back of your head the entire time.

 

"May I inquire as to the nature of this visit, Spymaster?" 

 

A pause. "I noticed you keep calling people by their status or title rather than their names. I cannot help but wonder about the possible reasons why you'd wish to distance yourself from us."

 

"Mere necessity. The war brought suffering to everyone - I am simply looking out for myself."

 

"Have you lost people to it? To magic?" You cannot help the bitter smile.

 

"I have lost myself to magic." You hold up your hand. "I... I think I know why you're here."

 

"Oh?"

 

"The Commander wants the Templars as our allies. Josephine wants the Mages. Each choice brings heavy political consequences - and depending on the choice, people's opinions regarding the Inquisition will change. You were supposed to be the tiebreaker but you have chosen to remain neutral." You shrug. "Fearing a stalemate, you have brought the matter to me - but I am in no position to decide."

 

"Of course you are. You have seen first-hand the consequences of the war. In a manner, you might as well be a victim of it. Both the Mages and the Templars have the power to close the Breach, it is true."

 

"Why not recruit both?"

 

She smiles, "The war has not ended. Bringing both parties into the Inquisition will not end the conflict either - it will only bring strife into our ranks. Were the situation different, having both mages and templars would give us the power and necessary forces to close the Breach and fight the one who caused it. But we cannot.

 

"I did not come here in a covert attempt at manipulating your decision, but you must be made aware of what each choice brings. The mages are now apostates - fugitives from the Chantry and rebels. Siding with them will not help us gain the Chantry's support any faster. Two heretical factions joining forces, they will not like that.

 

"The Templar Order has been founded by the Chantry. They're well respected to some degree and siding with them will bring us favor with the faithful. Many people fear magic. Having the templars as a force to neutralize the Breach - a source of magic, will ease some of their fears." She sighs, crossing her arms. Her stare has you now rooted to your spot, unable to move.

 

"But siding with the mages will make people believe we disregard the importance of Circles and siding with the Templars will make the apostates believe we do not care for their freedom. No matter our personal beliefs, that is how they will see the Inquisition as a whole."

 

You release the breath that has been burning in your lungs for the duration of her speech and reach up to rub at your temples. "How much time do we have?"

 

"Not long. Enchanter Fiona has extended you an invitation to Redcliffe; your presence - or lack of it - will be answer enough. The same can be said for the Templar Order."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live.


	11. Chapter 11

“Thank you for your timely arrival, Enchanter. The Inquisition is grateful for your help. If there is anything we can do to help your efforts in restoring the Circle, do not hesitate to ask.”

 

“Of course, my dear. There is something you can do; after the Circles fell, their libraries were plundered by scavengers. A thousand years of recorded knowledge, at the hands of bandits. It makes me sick to think of it. I’ve received news that some tomes were located – if the Inquisition can take care of this matter, the Circle would be in your debt.”

 

“Missives will be sent to our forces in the field. Any tomes and phylacteries discovered will be salvaged and returned to the Circles.”

 

“It brings me great joy to see the Inquisition working towards the good of all. Justinia’s death has shattered the balance of power in Thedas. Mages, templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate.”

 

“Failure is a luxury we cannot afford.”

 

“It never was, Ambassador. As for your written inquiries, I believe an answer to your letter is long overdue: The Game has observed and decided; the Herald is not and will never be part of the Orlesian nobility.

 

* * *

 

The purpose of this journey is the recruitment of one group titled The Bull's Chargers. Their representative arrived to Haven days before your return from Val Royeaux and has seemingly made a compelling enough argument in favor of his mercenaries that the Commander took it to the war room. Several letters to Orlais and Nevarra later and the Ambassador confirmed their worth as well.

 

So here you are. The Storm coast. Topical name; you expected nothing less and by your companions' preparations, neither did they. Your party has been outfitted with cured leathers made to withstand the rain and biting wind.

 

The Coast is somber and drowned in a perpetual fog. You can make out the outline of mountains and massive stone carvings but most of your attention is focused on the wet rocks under your feet. You never did like the outdoors. Bandits and Tevinter mercenaries are scattered all along the coast and in the distance, past the fog you sometimes spy a monstrous winged shape soaring above the sea. It's screech pierces deep inside you, reaching the part of your brain that causes your knees to lock.

 

"Let's try not to disturb _that_ , shall we?" You mutter. The sooner you find Bull's Chargers, the faster you can leave this place.

 

Blackwall breathes deeply the saltwater air, eyes searching the waves. "Been a long time since I was at sea."

 

"Surprising that there are no ships." Cassandra begins, glancing at the dragon silhouette. "This time of year there should be plenty."

 

"Recent events must have put a hold on trading." Solas pipes up.

 

"I've got a friend who's a ship captain. She would love this place."

 

You start walking first, careful not to slip. "Let's not overstay our welcome. Scout Harding said she located the mercenary group. It shouldn't be too far away."

 

And they're not. You find them in the heat of battle. Cassandra and Varric are already rushing into the thick of it and before you can make sense of who they're fighting, you feel a familiar cold pressure against your body - Solas' barrier.

 

You stay back, as always, away from the melee fighters but keeping close enough to the mage in case someone decides to turn their attention to you. The Bull's Chargers, Cullen said they're called and now looking upon the grey-skinned horned mountain cleaving through enemy armor like butter you finally understand the name.

 

You swallow. They would be useful; especially since Cullen rejected your suggestion that Sky Watcher should accompany you and your party. Daggers at the ready, you take one more step behind Solas and keep your eyes on what must be the qunari leader of the mercenaries.

 

The fight goes well, in your opinion. Not many injured on your side. Some of the mercenaries go around checking the Venatori bodies for survivors as you make your way to the qunari man.

 

"You must be Iron Bull." Cassandra speaks first, lowering her shield.

 

"Yeah, the horns usually give it away. You remember Cremissius Aclassi, my lieutenant?"

 

Pleasantries are exchanged and scouts are sent back and forth between their camp and the Inquisition's. An invitation to spend the night in The Chargers' camp is extended and graciously accepted. It seems almost... _normal_ and you find yourself exhaling deeply, whatever subconscious fears you harbored finally put at rest. The Chargers seem merry and more than willing to mingle with your party. You sit back from the fires where most of the conversations are taking place, content to observe for now. A cup of something has been shoved in your hands some time ago but the foul smell of the mixture put you off drinking. Cassandra seemed to have a similar response to her cup so she has excused herself, retreating to your tent under the pretext of cleaning her weapons and armor.

 

A hand closes around your shoulder, big enough to swallow it and you snap to attention, almost dropping the cup. When you look up you can see the hidden mirth in Iron Bull's eyes.

 

"Shall we talk business?"

 

You stand up and allow Bull to place a hand on your back and guide you to his tent. The inside is bare of any trinkets or decorations but to the side you see a rack of various weapons. You can tell just by glancing at them that they weigh more than you.

 

"So... you've seen us fight. We're expensive but we're worth it. And I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us." He smirks, pouring what seems like ale into two wooden cups. He places one before you and downs the other like a shot. You push push your own cup towards him, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

 

"How much is this going to cost me, exactly?"

 

"Wouldn't cost you anything, unless you wanna buy drinks later. Gold will take care of itself. All that matters is we're worth it."

 

You hum. "The Chargers seem like excellent company."

 

"They are. But you're not just getting the boys." He grins. "You're getting me. You need a frontline bodyguard, I'm your man. Whatever it is - demons, dragons; the bigger the better. And there's one other thing." The chair creaks as he leans forward. "Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever Heard of the Ben-Hassrath?"

 

You shake your head. "It's a qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically. Or...well, _we're_ spies."

 

A pause. "You're... a spy."

 

"The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I've been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge and send reports on what's happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I'll share them with your people."

 

The urge to stand up from your seat and start pacing is so overwhelming you can feel your legs twitching. You sigh; why couldn't just one thing go right in this goddamned day?

 

"You're a qunari spy and you just... told me?" He takes one more swig from his cup.

 

"Whatever happened at that conclave thing, it's bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I am on your side."

 

"Still could have hidden what you are."

 

"From something called the Inquisition? I'd've been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me."

 

You nod, rotating the empty cup in place while gathering your thoughts. Damn it all, if only you had more information about the Qun, this decision might not have made you feel like walking on eggshells. You raise your gaze and meet his. He seems sincere enough but then again - isn't that what spies do? Not that you would know outside the occasional thriller movie. You furrow your brows and stand up from your seat, repressing the urge to storm out of the tent. It is decided then; for the good of the Inquisition you will respectfully decline his offer. Cassandra would have your head otherwise.

 

Something changes in his expression in the time it takes you to gather your thoughts and stand up. It's too quick to discern what but he stands up as well and smiles, a slow curl of his lips revealing sharp canines. When he talks, his voice is lower, more intimate. It's almost like you're not speaking about recruitment anymore but sharing stories over a drink. It's enough to knock you for a loop.

 

"Then again, I'm not asking the Inquisition. I'm asking you." His emphasis makes something in your brain grind to a halt. Maybe it's the emphasis on the last word and the fact that ever since arriving in Thedas, people have looked at you with varying degrees of interest but never in you as a person; rather, what you can _do._

 

“You run your reports past Leliana before sending them. You send nothing she doesn’t approve. If this turns out to be a trick or your reports compromise the Inquisition, Cassandra will eat you alive.”

 

He laughs, a low rumbling sound. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” When the two of you exit the tent, his voice pierces through the night air:

 

“Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking and start packing. The Chargers just got hired!” There are cheers from different sides of the camp and as your eyes follow the sounds you meet the Seeker's burning gaze.

 

* * *

 

"We cannot recruit them." Inside your tent, you follow Cassandra's pacing from the corner of your eye and focus on unbuckling the clasps on your armor.

 

"I already did."

 

"Herald, he is a spy! He has confessed to smuggling information for the Qun!"

 

"And I am certain Leliana is more than capable of dealing with a known spy in the Inquisition."

 

"There will be consequences, once word gets out. The Inquisition, allying with--"

 

You cut her off, turning around and facing the woman. This is perhaps the first time the two of you have exchanged more than two words in the privacy of your tent and having an argument about the sanctity of the Inquisition was not how you imagined it would go. Not that you did. The woman standing before you is worried and on some level you understand the cause of it. But you also understand the fact that Cullen, Leliana and Josephine are not here and you will most definitely not be the ultimate decision maker. "Cassandra. The Chantry is so obsessed with keeping their reputation intact that they are unwilling to make the smallest step towards helping the people of Thedas. I will not let us become them. I gave him a _chance;_ the decision is out of my hands now."

 

She sighs."I suppose... the contracts will be drawn up once we reach Skyhold and the council comes to an agreement.

 

Your response is not quite a grimace but not quite a smile either. "Thank you. Would it make you feel better if I said that I'll cut him down myself at the first sign of suspicious behavior?"

 

"Herald, do not take this as an insult but you do not have the skill or the strength required for such a feat." She frowns but you can see the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have probably noticed by now that most of the dialogue in the story is canon, save for about 30% of it. This will go on for quite a bit but I have made it a point to change the setting of the dialogue and the people speaking it to some degree. I am still unsure whether that was a good idea but eyyyyy hasn't stopped me before.
> 
> Yes I am alive. Yes I am struggling. But we are so close, bois, so close to one of my favorite scenes.


	12. Chapter 12

The Bull's Chargers are approved by the others despite Cassandra's protests. They don't have enough men to add to Cullen's army but he doesn't seem to mind and judging by the cold glint in Leliana's eye you guess she has a few missions set aside for them to prove their worth. You don't know much about her and Bull's meetings but everyone can predict the tight leash they'll be kept on for however long she deems fit.

 

Your suspicions are confirmed not a week later when The Iron Bull breaks away from his table to approach yours, one hand almost swallowing the ale tankard he's holding and the other already spinning the chair opposite yours to face him. You look up from your book, the noise of the tavern bleeding back into your ears, fold the corner of the page and close the book.

 

"Your spymaster moves quickly." He begins, placing his mug on the table and folding his arms on the back of the chair.

 

"I'd be surprised if she didn't. I take it you got field approval?"

 

"Yep. Fallow Mire scouts discovered an old road that cuts through the Frostbacks. We've been sent to secure the route for Cullen's soldiers. Ain't much but the team's happy to finally get off their asses."

 

You grimace, recalling the dreary weather and walking corpses infesting the area. Cold shivers run down your spine from the memory alone so you pick up your coffee cup and cradle it in-between your palms, leeching away any remaining warmth.

 

"Have fun. With any luck, that'll be the first and last mission in that area."

 

"Undead right? Can't blame you. Then again, demons might be more your thing." You lean back in your chair and respond to his smirk with an amused huff.

 

"And you came to let me know of your future whereabouts?"

 

"I'm told small talk makes me seem less aggressive. Is it working?" You doubt anything would make him seem less aggressive, what with his massive frame and horns but looking back to the past couple of minutes you don't find it in yourself to disagree. Your self-imposed isolation from those in the Inquisition has kept conversation to a minimum and with a start you realize that you cannot remember the last time you've laid back in a chair and let your expression show anything but the stern lines of stress and paranoia. Not that you will tell him that.

 

You take a sip out of your mug and grimace at the taste of lukewarm coffee. "What do you want, Bull?"

 

"I've seen Cullen's troops: smart and loyal; as soon as they learn how to hold a decent shield wall they'll be good to go. He's shaping up to be a good commander but he's building an army, not a movement. And Red? Has the guts to do anything it takes to see this Inquisition succeed. But she's your spymaster and I don't see her standing in the spotlight anytime soon."

 

Bull continues, his one visible eye not looking away from you, "You're all running around, trying to recruit as many as you can but the biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn't on the front lines. It's at the top." He stops to take a swig of his tankard. "You've got no leader. No Inquisitor."

 

Ah, there it is. You straighten in your seat, ignoring the minuscule speck of regret that comes with the change in topic. "The Inquisition has done well so far without one, hasn't it?"

 

"That's because all you've needed so far was damage control."

 

You shrug and secretly wonder if he can see the frown you're trying to keep at bay. This conversation makes hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the feeling of being stuck in a shrinking box seems to get stronger with every word he speaks.

 

"Maybe Cassandra can take up the title. She's been the driving force of this Inquisition; leader in all but name."

 

"Well, that gets you the believers. Doesn't do much for the rest of us, though."

 

"You have a point, make it."

 

"My _point_ is, what happens after the Breach ends? _Ah_ , who knows, maybe you seal the Breach, the Chantry gets off its ass and all those soldiers go home and get fat." There's a smile playing on his lips when he lifts up the tankard to take another sip. Carefree, you would have dubbed it not five minutes ago but now, hidden behind walls of paranoia you can see it holds similarities to the spymaster's own expression.

 

"It could happen," Any trace of humor has left your voice long ago.

 

"It won't, but it _could._ " The Iron Bull stands up and you have to crane your neck to keep his gaze. Not that you have to but the two of you have locked eyes ever since the start of your conversation. It would seem in poor standing to look away now. "My people don't pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions... and live with the consequences."

 

With a last "Don't get yourself killed while I'm gone", he heads back to his own table and you wordlessly reach for your book. When you find the right page again your eyes struggle to focus and you spend the remaining minutes of your free time staring past the words.

 

* * *

 

In the coming days, strength training is added to your daily schedule. You need the upper body strength required to pull the string of a bow if you're to change your weapon, Leliana says. You suspect she enjoys your pain ever since you oh so kindly advised her not to kill the mole inside her operation - a thoughtless comment that she put in motion, to your surprise.

 

When not riding or working towards increasing the draw weight of your practice bow, you manage to finish - and you use the term loosely because you are only interested in certain chapters that speak about the state of the world instead of religious propaganda - the books squirreled away from the Chantry. Your Summer Bazaar purchase is bundled up in linen sheets and stored away in a drawer dedicated to your undershirts.

 

You wake up one day in the wee hours of the morning and creep past the opened doors of the Chantry, borrowed books clutched tightly under your arm, set on returning them to their place before your morning training summons. There is a lull in the missions given to you and your party - one that you silently appreciate - but war room meetings are still frequent and devoid of common ground. With Josephine working on gathering enough influence to sway the Templar Order into acknowledging the Inquisition and sending unanswered letters to Redcliffe and Grand Enchanter Fiona, the decision on which group you should approach is still up in the air. Judging by Leliana's visit, she believes you can add your opinion to their disagreement but the thought of making what could possibly be a major choice for the future of the Inquisition leaves you shaking. You wish you knew more about templars and mages, enough to make the right decision - if there even is one to begin with.

 

Thoughts of armored men bearing the flaming sword insignia and apostates unleashing their powers on the innocent run through your mind while you're putting the last of the books away and it is then that you stumble upon the mage woman you met while in Val Royeaux. Her desk is tucked away into one of the corners of the Chantry, dozens of candles dripping on every unoccupied space on her desk. She's currently in the process of reading through a roll of parchment, back straight as she uses one of her hands to lean against the desk. The chair sits unoccupied to the side. You clear your throat to notify her of your presence.

 

"Madame Vivienne. I trust your lodgings are to your liking?"

 

"Far from it, my dear, but we have more pressing matters at hand than the sorry state of this village." It takes several moments before she lifts her gaze from the paper to meet your eyes. "I've met an elven mage earlier. Solas, I believe he was called. I admit, I was surprised. I didn't expect to find mages among the Inquisition."

 

"I have been told he joined the Inquisition freely, much like yourself."

 

"Perhaps." She sets the parchment down with a flick of her wrist. "His notes on Veil manipulation and the Fade are very thorough. So much knowledge and so little personal history... I find that peculiar, don't you?" The choice of words makes you nearly choke on your saliva. "You must be careful, my dear. People of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their face."

 

"Isn't that why you wanted to be here? To have a hand in that decision?"

 

"I think we both agree this war must end. What do you imagine will happen if the Circles are not restored? The Circle had plenty of problems, but it's an institution we sorely need."

 

"On that we can agree," You nod, leaning against the bookcase behind you. "I assume you have been informed of the Inquisition's efforts in making contact with the rebels and the Templar Order."

 

"Of course, my dear. Josephine asked for my assistance with more... steadfast Orlesian nobles but rest assured they will see the benefit of working with the Inquisition and not against it."

 

"You support the Templars? Were you not part of the Circles?"

 

"I was. But every Circle was different. Their templars were different, their politics unique... Some people suffered and some were content. Some were cruel, some compassionate and some indifferent. Some Circles were harsher in their restrictions. Kirkwall was the worst, but it was the exception. Most were quite permissive. Perhaps too permissive, in retrospect."

 

"Then how did it come to this state with the Circles in revolt?"

 

She shakes her head, expression darkening. "My dear, the Circle being disbanded was not a unanimous decision. The leadership chose to vote on independence based on the 'intolerable conditions imposed by the templars'. Many voted for Rebellion and Grand Enchanter Fiona's vote split the Circle in two. The rebels follow her. The loyalists follow me."

 

"Are you familiar with Grand Enchanter Fiona then?"

 

She grimaces. "We've met. Before her horrendously ill-timed and selfish vote for independence, I thought her adequate at her job. We would have done better to replace her years ago to let her spend time gardening. All actions have consequences, my dear. Do not imagine that yours will go unnoticed by history. Before this crisis is over, you may find that templars, flawed as they may be, are all that stand between us and chaos."

 

You swallow, mouth dry. Perhaps her words have some merit. "Thank you Madame. I've stolen enough of your time."

 

* * *

 

And they do, for at the next war room meeting you break the silence to propose the advancement of Josephine's plan in getting the Lord Seeker's attention. She frowns at your choice, a slight wrinkle of her forehead that vanishes between one blink and the next and proceeds to name various nobles that might be useful in pushing the Lord Seeker into agreeing to a hearing with the Inquisition.

 

It doesn't take her long. Two more weeks of training, in which Josephine, Viviene and Leliana pool their resources together to speed up the process. It seems futile until a missive from Therinfal Redoubt reaches Haven and Cullen's eyes enters the war room with eyes devoid of shadows, for the first time since you've met him.

 

"The templars must help us close the Breach. The Order was founded to fight magic! We've received word from a Knight recruit that they're gathered at Therinfal Redoubt." Cassandra shakes her head.

 

"The fortress has been vacant for decades. Why go there?"

 

"You must approach the Lord Seeker again to get anywhere." Leliana mutters, placing one of the map markers on Southron Hill. You guess that's where the templars have retreated and try to map out the possible route your party will have to take to reach it. "You can ask him then."

 

"The Lord Seeker made it clear he isn't interested in anyone unimportant." You mutter, meeting their eyes with a raised eyebrow.

 

Vivienne steps forward. "Leliana, Josephine and I have been working tirelessly to win over some of Orlais' most influential houses. Ten noble families agreed to help the Inquisition pressure the templars into sealing the Breach."

 

"In exchange, the Inquisition has promised the Herald of Andraste as its voice in these negotiations." You frown, hearing Josephine's words. She throws you a sympathetic smile that you don't return. Deja vu buzzes around the back of your head and summons the memory of Val Royeaux to the forefront of your mind; all this time in the limelight does nothing to disband the belief that you are the head of the Inquisition. On the contrary, you think with a slight curl of your lip. No wonder Bull's conversation made you so uneasy. He must have realized the same thing.

 

"Even the Lord Seeker would find it difficult to ignore so many nobles on his doorstep."

 

"What if he refuses?" You ask.

 

"We do not need the Lord Seeker." Leliana declares. "We need his templars, with or without his approval. The Breach will not wait for our differences to settle."

 

"If we start preparing in the morning, we can reach Therinfal Redoubt by next week."

 

Cassandra's voice is hard: there's no _if_ ; you can already tell you'll be summoned before the break of dawn. Everyone is eager to get the Breach handled but somehow you can't shake the uncertainty of your decision away.

 

* * *

 

Your arrival at Therinfal Redoubt is anything but silent. You see along the path giant tents - tents that are as opulent as the Orlesian nobility residing in them - and carriages bearing various house crests. The journey was long and hurried and there is no time to rest.

 

"The Herald of Andraste!" The call pierces through the rain and you instinctively wince at the title but say nothing in response. The man breaks away from the crowd of masks, arms spread wide as a sign of welcome.

 

"Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales. Care to Mark the Moment? Ten Orlesian houses walk with you."

 

You try for a smile, Josephine's words ringing in your ears. "It's a shining day to have the best of Orlais in step with the Inquisition. The first of many inspirational and influential partnerships, I hope." You hope the phrase comes out as well as she made it sound.

 

"Oh, you're a natural. People will give you anything." You see him wink behind painted marble as he points towards the open metal gate. "Get the Lord Seeker's ear, see if you can't bend it to something advantageous."

 

"Charming." Vivienne mutters as soon as your party is out of the earshot of Lord Abernache.

 

You frown. "The Lord Seeker changed his mind about us rather quickly. Is he known for that?"

 

"The Lord Seeker isn't reputed to be fickle. Something must have changed." A tightly coiled ball of dread builds inside your chest at Vivienne's words but there's no time to sit and speculate about the reasons why you were summoned by name so you follow behind Lord Abernache and stand silently as he belittles the templar sent to escort you inside. 

 

"Win over the Lord Seeker and every able-bodied knight will help the inquisition seal the breach." Says Ser Barris, his words an echo of Cullen's. 

 

Fragments of conversation drift to you as you make your way past the entrance. No, conversation is too strong a word for what you hear: dozens of nobles chiding, arguing and declaring injustice over Lord Seeker's choice to have the templars retreat from Val Royeaux. You are almost sorry for bringing so many nobles but Josephine was right: their presence here did give you the attention of the Lord Seeker.

 

"Lord seeker asks that you perform the rite so that he may see the order in which you honor the people, the Maker and the order." Ser Barris gestures towards the three flags in front of you. Do you even have time for this? With every minute you spend here, the feeling that something's wrong, that this was too easy, grows stronger.

 

"No."

 

"The Lord Seeker's request about the rituals was--"

 

"He can't delay us any longer." Lord Abernache argues. "Take us to him."

 

And taken you are, before a man called Knight-Captain Denam who orders his men to attack. Both you and Lord Abernache survive, shielded by Cassandra, Blackwall, Solas, Vivienne and Varric. What follows next is a blue of metal and arcane powers, focused on taking down wave after wave of templars. Even Ser Barris is confused at the actions of his brothers.

 

There is nothing to be done but stand back as you all make your way through the Keep, in search of Lord Seeker Lucius. At times you think you hear his voice in the air around you but none of your companions react to it. The dread in your chest expands, blooms, until your hands shake and your every breath seems unwilling to be confined in your lungs.

 

When at last you find him he doesn't even acknowledge Cassandra's pleas. His eyes burn into you, hungry, and by the time your brain commands you to move away he has already grabbed you by the front of your armor. There is no time to think. No time to do anything, actually, because you are pushed away. Or is it inwards? It feels like falling and flying at the same time and it leaves the taste of bile on your tongue. The next time you open your eyes you are no longer in Therinfal Redoubt but the Fade. Spectral grass brushes against your boots as you make your way forward past stone pillars. Torches lie ahead, illuminating the air heavy with mist.

 

_No._ Not torches. _Corpses_ blackened by flames, kneeling, cowering away from the skies. You walk for the second time among the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There is no smoke to gather in your lungs but your mind supplies it for you anyway: your throat closes and you choke on imaginary fire and death and stumble into one of the corpses. The figure crumbles, leaving traces of ash on your pants and boots. You want to scream.

 

A rustle from the brush around you draws your attention as Leliana steps forward. Her arm extends to you but when she speaks the voice is not her own. "Come. Tell me, is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?"

 

A demon. What is a demon doing in Therinfal Redoubt? You suppose a more fitting question would be if you are still in the keep to begin with. "Are you trying to tempt me or copy me?"

 

"Everything tells me about you. So will this. Watch." You have no choice in the matter as your muscles seize up and you are deprived of all mobility, forced to watch the demon walk up to Cullen and run the blade across his neck. He goes limp and somewhere deep inside your heart you feel the stirrings of fear.

 

Leliana brings the knife to her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. "Being you will be much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker. Do you know what the Inquisition can become? When I'm done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then, I will be you."

 

She approaches, the tip of the blade now digging into your side. "Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the _right_ way."

 

The knife is plunged into your stomach yet you feel nothing. When you raise your eyes to meet the demon's, its face is replaced by yours. A silhouette of tar mirroring you in minute detail save for the eyes, glowing like beacons of green flame.

 

It leans forward, icy breath meeting the outside of your ear. "I am Envy and I will know you!"

 

Envy. You know the name. A memory of campfire and polished blades surges in your mind: one of the rarer types of demons, consumed by the need to shed its original skin and take on those of mortal beings. Is this what the Lord Seeker was? Is? And if so, for how long? Was he one in the Summer Bazaar or has the demon took on his form after he ordered the templars to march out of Val Royeaux? All these questions are as inconsequential as finding their answers: you doubt the Lord Seeker is still alive. And even if he were, you'd have to escape first, from wherever you are.

 

"Is imitating what you can't have your only pleasure?"

 

It laughs. "Accusing, trying to find my weakness. Is that who you are?"

 

You follow the voice of the demon, walking past memories of being imprisoned in the lowest levels of Haven's Chantry, of forests drowned in smoke and ash. There are screams; memories of battles - yours? The demon's? - and they blend together, a cacophony of despair. Time stretches into hours, rushes into minutes until your mind swims with the strain of keeping track of your imprisonment. Envy is there every step of the way, taking the form of your companions, of servants, of enemies your party has faces along the way. It's voice mocks, soothes, bites, everything to pry a reaction out of you. Sometimes you think you see the glint of tall, black mirrors but they vanish as soon as your eyes shift in their direction.

 

"Hurting, helpless, hasty. what happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?" You are stumbling away from pools of liquid blue fire when the new voice cuts through Envy's monologue.  It comes from behind you but when you turn no one is there. Envy protests and it only serves to heighten your curiosity.

 

"Who are you? Show yourself."

 

And it does, a young boy, probably about your age with a hat that hides most of his features behind its wide brim.

 

"I'm Cole. Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. It want to help. You, not envy."

 

He leads you away from liquid fire, into a room resembling Josephine's office.

 

"Do you know where I am, Cole?"

 

"We're inside you. Or I am. You're always inside you. So is this." You follow his finger to the corner of the room, swallowing when your eyes meet the reflective surface of a painfully familiar mirror. "We're here, hearing, helping. I hope. Envy is trying to take your face."

 

"Frozen?"

 

"Thoughts are fast. Outside, a blade is still falling, hanging in the air like a sunset. You have to get out."

 

Easier said than done. "How?"

 

"All of this is Envy. People, places, power. If you keep going, envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Being one person is hard. Being many, too many, more and more and Envy breaks down, you break out. Ideas are loud here. Make them louder."

 

His words make sense, in that odd way where part of you understands what you have to do while the rest of you is struggling to catch up.

 

"You're afraid. Don't be. We'll help."

 

Cole said Envy mirrors places. Well. There's one that the demon hasn't seen yet. But you make it see.

 

You throw concrete at stone floors and break the low walls of the room with plaster and steel. Overgrown tree roots slow your ascent, decorated with skeletons hanging by frayed rope. You turn the rope into wiring and light the darkness with electricity. You give Envy automobiles, technology too alien for it to replicate, drown its demons in glowing fountains and watch it struggle with sustaining the weight of your true world.

 

At first, it is silent. Curious, even, and the onslaught on your mind falters for but a second but anger surges anew as you continue building and in showing so much of yourself, Envy can reach deeper in turn.

 

"You wish to be difficult?" It says, the face too young and too familiar. Dark hair kept back in braids frame a heart shaped face that makes your eyes prickle with unshed tears. Envy smiles, a cold upturn of its lips that makes your skin crawl. You should never have to see that expression on your sister's face.

 

"Do your friends know you so well? Not as well as I'll know you."

 

"Keep going up. You're more you than you are Envy and that tires it out." Comes the gentle voice of Cole.

 

So you go on. You shape the rooms of Therinfal Redoubt into classrooms, hallways, museums, retracing your steps from real life and always finding a flight of stairs to climb. You can't tell if exhaustion has set in yet or if adrenaline pushes your mind into working faster than the demon can keep up but the red metal door before which you found the Lord Seeker is in front of you now. So close.

 

Your fingers reach for its handles but you are seized from behind before you can make contact.

 

"Unfair, unfair!" The demon screeches, mimicking your voice and lifting you off the ground. "That thing kept you whole, kept you from giving me shape."

 

Envy has grown more aggressive. Never has he tried to harm you directly, preferring to let shadow demons or your own memories do the work for him. The fear grows with every breath that's cut off from fully reaching your lungs by the fingers crushing your windpipe.

 

"We'll start again, more pain this time. The Elder one still comes." Through blurry eyes you think you see the shape of something familiar over its shoulder. Black and reflective and currently serving as a doorway for a clawed arm that breaks through. Then a face. A leg.

 

"You stretched farther than your powers. You're weak." Though he is nowhere to be seen, Cole's voice rings crystal clear around you both. Envy snarls and his grip on your throat tightens to the point of unbearable pain.

 

At first you don't see the arm that rips through the center of Envy's chest, spitting green. The demon keeps and flings you away but you crawl to your knees in time to see the arm retract and a hand grip his distorted face. Your face. Clawed fingers dig into the sockets of Envy's bright green eyes while another reaches from behind to slither into its open mouth. They stop. They wait.

 

Between desperate coughs you find the strength to nod in approval. You know those arms and those fingers and know that in this moment only, the mirror will obey. Shrieks echo around you, sourceless, as if the whole of the world is in pain. It should not be possible but you hear the tearing of flesh and snap of bone as if you are the one causing it and yet do not take your eyes away from its form. You watch as the mirror splits his face apart. At last, the Envy demon retracts from your mind in agony.

 

The world comes back in an instant. You are pushed through the massive red doors by the demon that has now shed the face of the Lord Seeker. Its screech echoes around the stone chamber as you look up to see it skitter up the walls and away.

 

"The Lord Seeker!"

 

"No." Your voice sounds raw. There are hands grasping your arms and lifting you to your feet and you nod in gratitude to whoever it is. "An impostor. An envy demon replaced the Lord Seeker."

 

You are ready for the day to be over. Your thoughts are too fast and you cannot understand the shouted orders of Ser Barris. You don't have your companions' stamina or drive to see this to the end and a final battle with the demon could be fatal in your state. Thankfully, they seem to agree and the rest of your companions rush up the stairs after the demon while you are left back down with Ser Barris. You down one of the remaining two healing potions and toss him the last one. As his hand catches the tiny glass vial your eyes have already left his form, searching the room for greasy blonde hair and large hats but Cole is nowhere to be found.

 

They return in various states of harm, stumbling down the stone steps leading to the highest tower in the fortress. Cassandra nods at Ser Barris' inquisitive expression and declares the demon dead. The whole of the fortress seems to exhale in relief.

 

"The demon is dead. Andraste be praised, she shielded you from its touch. We've numbers across Thedas but we let this happen. Our officers wither failed to see it or were complicit. The templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us." Ser Barris begins, when the fighting is done and they have gathered their wounded as well as the dead. You know nothing of the state of the nobles past the gates of the fortress and you hope they had enough time to flee before the fighting began; their blood is the last thing you want on your hands.

 

So absorbed you are in your thoughts that you fail to notice the silence that has settled around you. When you lift your head, expecting him to address Cassandra you see the templar facing you instead. Behind him, Vivienne nods solemnly and your mouth is suddenly too full of saliva. You swallow.

 

"There was corruption here, yes," You begin, words almost slurred by the speed at which possible answers are running through your head. "but I also see valor and honor in each of you who stood fast." You remember Leliana's words, about how the Templar Order is held in high regards among the people due to the fear of mages.

 

"Your order is a symbol that holds the people's respect. That cannot die today. The Inquisition offers you an alliance: Help the inquisition seal the Breach before it swallows us all and we will offer you supplies, weapons and grounds to shelter you."

 

"Do we take the Inquisition's terms, brothers and sisters?"

 

Cheers answer him. They sound misplaced, considering the circumstances it took to get here.

 

"The templars will come. I hope your stronghold is ready." You nod and avoid the expressions of your companions - both approving and not.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra paces the length of the war room, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth down. You try to ignore the way her voice echoes in the stone chamber. "Officers betraying their soldiers, templars without leaders, a demon imitating the Lord Seeker... we should have taken them to task. The crimes they've committed..." She trails off with a shake of her head.

 

"Were committed by their officers. The soldiers of the order will serve." The belief Cullen has in his former Order would be admirable if you weren't the victim of an Envy demon attack so recently. But the templars have agreed to an alliance and the Inquisition can work towards closing the Breach - that is what they set out to do after all. You want to breathe a sigh of relief, now that the end seems so close but something makes the breath stick in your lungs. No. Not yet.

 

"These crimes put them at our mercy. Yet the terms of this alliance do not benefit the Inquisition as they should! You should have consulted us, Herald."

 

You meet Leliana's steel gaze with one of your own. "You wanted the templars helping the Inquisition, I delivered them. The other option would have taken more time than we could afford."

 

"An alliance with the templars was our desired outcome." Josephine pipes in, in an attempt to placate the displeased spirits in the room. "May we discuss their imminent arrival?"

 

Leliana nods. "A few dozen veterans are coming ahead of the rest, to help seal the Breach."

 

"How soon until these veterans arrive?"

 

"They're already here. Templars don't like to be late."

 

You know that voice. All the current occupants of the war room turn their heads as one towards the darkest corner of the room, where a large floppy hat seems to materialize out of the shadows. The sight is familiar and brings a smile to your face. There are various shouts of surprise that echo in the room along with the high-pitched sound of metal sliding free from its sheath as both Cassandra and Cullen draw their swords on the spirit. Cole makes no sign of noticing their weapons.

 

"Wait!" You jump out of your seat and take a step in his direction.

 

"I came with you to help. I would have told you sooner but you were busy." Cole pipes up. The brim of the hat lifts ever so slightly for you to see his face.

 

"Call the guards!" Cassandra demands. Her grip on the blade tightens and she tip of it raises ever so slightly in Cole direction. You keep your eyes on her and move a step in front of her and the boy, half shielding him with your body. It's the least you can do after the saved you from Envy.

 

Leliana watches the entire thing from her spot next to the world map. "A moment please, Cassandra. I would like to hear why he came."

 

"You help people. You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help." He speaks in earnest, even you do not have the heart to doubt his intentions for now. Not that you could, you think, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

 

"How, Cole?"

 

"The hole in the sky is too loud for spirits to think. It's pulling, pushing out pain. I want to stop it. I can be hard to see. I can kill things that would hurt people. I won't get in the way."

 

"He saved my life in Therinfal." You find yourself saying, intent on accepting Cole into into the Inquisition. "I couldn't have defeated Envy without him."

 

Cassandra scowls. "But what does he want now?"

 

"I think he really is trying to help." There's a warm smile curling the corners of your lips upwards when you speak the words. It gives Cassandra enough pause for Cole to speak again.

 

"I won't be in the way. Tiny, no trouble, no notice taken unless you want them to."

 

Cullen laughs, incredulous. "You're not honestly suggesting we give him run of the camp?"

 

"Not Freely perhaps, but it seems a waste to-- hold on!" Josephine cuts herself off, stepping forward towards the boy. You look back to see what caused the alarm on her face but Cole is gone, the shadows hiding nothing more than stone.

 

"Where did he go?" You shrug.

 

"It's a good trick. You get used to it."

 

"I'll have people watch the boy, but let's not be distracted from the Breach." Leliana says in the time it takes everyone to sheathe their weapons and return to their seats. Cullen nods, his eyes falling on your Mark before meeting your eyes:

 

"We'll need your help when the templar veterans arrive. Take time to prepare while you can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress? In my good Christian household? Perish the thought.  
> Extra long chapter that seems hella dry because I felt bad for being inactive for so long.  
> Cole my bby is finally here hell yeah!


End file.
